


Tarantallegra

by Fortylinestare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Cutting, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sacrifice, Spells & Enchantments, Suicide, Torture, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:20:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fortylinestare/pseuds/Fortylinestare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if someone you loved was suffering and you could take away their pain? Would you do it? What if there was a price?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deprimo

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to lie to you: this is a very depressing story. 
> 
> Don't let the beginning of the first chapter fool you with its fluffy feelings and cliches. I mean, just look at those tags and warnings. Things are clearly going to go downhill. 
> 
> If I were you, I'd run away right now and leave this story to its sad, twisted little self. 
> 
> It was first posted on fanfiction in 2010 (which is FOUR YEARS AGO! How scary is that?) and this is its second foray into the big wide world. Please be gentle, it's very fragile. It may also make you a little fragile. I felt fragile writing it. I should probably stop using the word fragile now. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Or, you know, suffer. That'd probably be more appropriate.

She sighed mournfully as she leant back, letting the strong mahogany bookshelves behind her support her weight. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the sturdy shelf. 

Why did she do this to herself? What was she thinking? Was she even thinking at all? 

The soft sounds of movement made her eyes snap open. She leaned forward, raising herself up on tiptoes to peer through the gap in the shelf. She watched the young man who was sitting bent over a textbook at the table beyond. He had just thrown down his quill with a sigh and was rubbing his eyes tiredly. Her heart surged with sympathy for him. He’d been working there all night. 

‘And you’ve been watching him all night’, the unfortunately rational voice inside her mind observed. ‘What happened to that transfiguration essay you were supposed to write…?’ 

She sighed once more, this time in exasperation. She really couldn’t afford to get behind on any more homework. Her newfound feelings for her best friend had overwhelmed her, until she found herself unable to concentrate on anything else. 

She’d been working late each night on her own in the common room just to stay on track, because whenever she was near him she simply couldn’t manage to keep her mind on her work. 

She let herself fall back on the shelves, closing her eyes again. She was bone tired. Too many sleepless nights had left her in a state of delirious exhaustion. She needed rest. She needed sleep. She needed to go one night without dreaming of Harry. 

But most of all, what she needed to do was finish her essay before class tomorrow. 

“Hey.” The deep voice invaded her reverie. She opened her eyes to find the man of her dreams standing before her. He looked just as tired as she felt. “Did you get the essay finished?” 

For a moment she could only stare. How had he sneaked up on her? Then she found her voice. 

“Yeah, all done.” The lie came out without her having to think about it. “Did you?” 

“Yeah, finally. Seriously, you’d think McGonagall’d go easy on her own house, right? Snape does.” 

“That’s not really a fair comparison, is it?” 

“True, true.” The words were interrupted by a yawn. “Well, I’m done in. I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.” 

She mumbled something non-committal as she watched him walk away, her attention so completely focused on him that she barely registered his words. 

He was beautiful. Dark hair contrasted sharply with his soft, pale skin, accentuated by the startlingly green eyes that hid behind his thick, round glasses. Even when he was exhausted, his face was so alive. Just being near him imbued her with a sense of energy and adrenaline. 

She always hated to say goodnight to him. It was the worst part of her day. It was clichéd, she knew, but the thought of the night ahead, alone with her books, was daunting. Once the books had been her friends, her only companions during a lonely childhood. Now, though, they served as a reminder of the expectations that surrounded her, straining her to breaking point. 

While she daydreamed, fantasising about late night Quidditch Pitch assignations and moments of closeness beneath his cloak, the anxiety and the demands of living up to her reputation melted away. When Harry left her, the pressure came flooding back. 

As the library door swung closed behind him, she whispered, “Goodnight, Harry.” 

Her feelings were utterly hopeless. Harry would never see her as anything more than a friend. Deep down she knew that and so she had resigned herself to the fate of loving him from afar. 

She collected her books and followed him out of the library. There was no point staying now he was gone. When she reached the common room, she was slightly surprised to find it empty. He must have been quicker than she’d thought and headed straight to bed. 

She settled herself in a comfortable armchair in a dark corner and began to write. The fire burnt low, leaving the room in shadows. Lost in her work, she didn’t notice the time passing until a sudden noise made her look up from her parchment. 

It was the sound of the portrait door swinging open. She turned, curious to see who was coming in at so late an hour, only to find the hole empty. 

She frowned. The portrait wouldn’t open on it’s own, surely? She was just getting to her feet to investigate when the invisibility cloak slipped shimmering to the ground and Harry appeared in the middle of the room. 

She gasped softly, then covered her mouth. He was the last person she’d expected to see. She stayed back, cloaked in the shadows, quiet as a mouse. If he didn’t know she was there, she thought to herself, she could watch him freely. 

As she studied his strong, lean profile admiringly, he stooped to pick up the cloak from the floor. As he stretched his arm, he winced visibly. Her eyebrows knitted together as questions raced through her mind – was he hurt? What had happened to him? Where had he been? 

Straightening, Harry fingered his arm gingerly, then rolled up his sleeve to examine it. By the pale glow of the gibbous moon shining through the windows, she could see that it was scored along its length with long scars. Some were completely healed, shining dully in the moonlight, but others were more recent. A few were an angry red, raised against his skin, and some were still bleeding. 

Her heart stopped beating and everything froze in that instant. She felt like she examined his arm for long minutes, each cruel line branding itself in her memory. Her eyes were wide with horror, her face devoid of colour, but all that she was aware of was Harry’s arm, stark and white in the moonlight. 

White, except for the dark, ruinous lines that ran from his elbow to his wrist. 

She was hit with a sudden realisation, an epiphany that made her heart break and her stomach sink. 

Her friend – her love – was in pain. He had been in so much pain that he had hurt himself, over and over again. 

He had been in pain and she hadn’t even noticed. 

Suddenly her feelings for him seemed childish and silly. A schoolyard crush, a teenage infatuation. She had been so absorbed in her own small world that she hadn’t seen, hadn’t known, hadn’t been there as her friend had spiraled downwards. 

Guilt overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes to hold back tears. When she opened them again, he was gone. 

In that moment, she thought, she hoped, that she’d been dreaming. Maybe what she’d seen wasn’t true. Maybe she would wake up with her head on her half-finished essay and remember this nightmare moment with relief, knowing it wasn’t real. 

She hoped, desperately and fervently, that it wasn’t real. 

The rational voice that refused to be silenced spoke up, as it always did when there was something she didn’t want to hear. 

‘Stop pretending. You know full well that what you just saw was real. Now, what are you going to do about it?’ 

What was she going to do about it? What was she going to do about it? It had happened only seconds before and already her subconscious expected action? No. She hadn’t even had time to absorb this. It was too much. It was too hard. 

She gulped, trying to swallow the lump that had risen in her throat. She knew exactly what she was going to do about it: she was going to break down and cry. 

So she did.


	2. Tergeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I've strapped you all in to a rollercoaster cart, saluted you and turned the ignition to send it chugging slowly up that incline. 
> 
> We all know that one way or another, it's going to have to come hurtling back down.

She was still there when they found her in the morning. She had fallen asleep on top of her half-finished essay, just as she’d imagined. But that didn’t mean that the events of last night weren’t real. 

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was Harry, standing over her with a fond smile on his face. She flinched visibly. 

“Come on, ‘Mione! We’re gonna be late!” He headed across the room, shaking his head but still smiling, and walked out the portrait door, holding it open for her expectantly. “Well?” he asked, cocking a curious eyebrow. “Aren’t you coming?” 

For a moment she couldn’t answer him. All she could do was stare at the arm that held the portrait open for her, her eyes haunted. She saw him glance at the arm, fear flashing across his face. When he saw that all was covered, relief replaced anxiety. 

“Come on! Don’t you want breakfast before transfiguration?” 

She finally staggered to her feet, feeling hung over from exhaustion and emotion. 

“No,” she croaked, her voice sounding alien and harsh, “You go ahead. I’ll see you in class.” 

“Suit yourself.” Harry shrugged and set off down the corridors, letting the portrait swing closed behind him. 

She gathered her books and parchment and raced up to the dormitory as quickly as her pounding head could stand. Once inside the deserted room, she flung herself onto the untouched four-poster bed and whipped the curtains closed. 

She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. It was going to be alright. Everything was going to be alright. 

‘How can it be alright? Didn’t you see? Harry’s cutting himself! How can the world be alright when the centre of your universe is falling apart?’ 

It was true, Harry was the centre of her universe. He was the centre of so much. He was the last hope for the Order, the saviour of the Wizarding World. He was the Boy Who Lived, the boy who would face the Dark Lord. 

Realisation dawned on her. When she thought of him like that, she understood why he was in pain. She had thought she was under a lot of pressure? Bearing the burden, not only of the expectations of family and friends, but of the entire world would be enough to make anyone depressed. 

How could she not have seen what he was going through? How could he have masked the pain so well? After all, she had spent weeks studying his every expression, watching him from afar, and she had seen nothing until last night. 

‘But you weren’t looking for that.’ 

The rational voice was right. She hadn’t been watching Harry for Harry. She had been watching for herself, for her own gratification. She had never once thought about his feelings, except to wonder if he returned her own. 

The guilt returned with a vengeance. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes again. It felt like she was doing that a lot lately. Not to sleep, but to escape. She tried to flee the pressures of the world by retreating into the darkness of her mind, hiding behind closed eyelids. 

It was no good. All she could see when she closed her eyes were hundreds of lines scored across the inside of her eyelids. Some were pale and silvery, others dark with dried blood. 

Opening her eyes and sitting up again, she found the lines were gone, but the guilt returned. She sighed. There was no escaping this. 

If only she had a way to help him! If only she could save him, as he’d saved her so many times before. 

Maybe she should talk to him, tell him what she’d seen. She could help him, comfort him… 

No. It was too dangerous. She couldn’t risk losing his friendship. She didn’t know what that would do to her. If she couldn’t have his love, at least she could be near him. At least she could be his friend. 

Besides, she didn’t know what a confrontation would do to him. He was already depressed – fighting with her couldn’t help. She was sure that if she confronted him, he’d be angry and defensive. She wanted to spare him the shame of discovery. 

Her heart ached acutely for him and, in that moment, she realised that what she felt was no mere schoolyard crush. Her feelings went far deeper than that. She truly loved him. 

Thinking back over the years they had known one another, she was inundated with memories of their adventures. Some were grand, some terrifying. Some were painful and others beautiful. Remembering their friendship, it was easy to see why she had lost her heart to him. 

He was brave and selfless – always sacrificing himself for the people he loved. He was self-effacing and humble – never boasting or taking advantage of the fame that had followed him from birth. Clever and handsome, loving and noble, he was beautiful on the inside and out. 

Her heart swelled at the memories, then burst as she returned to reality. She had failed him. She had not been there when he needed her most. She had been too involved in her own selfish crush to notice what was happening to him. 

By now, tears were coursing down her cheeks. She thought she had used them up the night before, but evidently there were plenty left to shed. 

If only there were some way to take away his pain! She would do that for him. She would take it herself, if she could. She knew she would do anything, so long as Harry didn’t have to suffer. 

She stopped, eyes opening wide as the seed of a plan appeared in her mind. She planted it and allowed the thought to grow, waiting patiently as it formed into an idea. A smile graced her lips, the first in many hours. 

She had an idea. She knew how to save Harry. 

They’d learned a spell earlier in the year to call feelings of happiness to the caster. That one had come in particularly handy around exams, when everyone was a little depressed.   
Maybe, she thought, that spell could be changed, so she could call Harry’s pain to herself. If she did it correctly, then she might be able to save her friend from his suffering. 

She paused for a second, realising the implications of her plan. She would have to take his pain for herself. She would have to suffer whatever he was feeling. 

Determination hardened her gaze. She would do it. She could take it. She had to – for Harry. 

Grabbing spare parchment from the table, she quickly scrawled a few words and did some calculations. Creating a new spell wasn’t easy, but she wasn’t really worried. After all, it wouldn’t be the first spell she’d made. A slight alteration to the original should be enough. 

An hour later, she stared down at the parchment in her hand, triumphant. She had it, now all she had to do was use it. 

By now she was so late to transfiguration that there was no real point in going. She may as well take advantage of the time she had left to try out her new spell. If it worked, then she could free herself from the pain of the guilt she was feeling. One morning of it had been enough to crush her completely. She didn’t see how she could survive it much longer. She had to do something. She had to save Harry. 

She had never wanted anything so much in her life. 

She ran into the girls’ bathroom and locked the door behind her. Drawing her wand, she closed her eyes and touched it to her temple. She drew a deep breath and thought of her love. 

“Effusio venite!”

As she watched herself in the mirror over the sink, something black flew from the tip of her wand, soaking through her skin into her head. It both looked and felt sinister. Her skin crawled as the dark cloud was absorbed into her flesh. 

Doubt suddenly seized her. What had she done? She should never have created a new spell so quickly. She hadn’t given herself time to test it, to do research. She hadn’t even paused to think it though. 

Alea iacta est. “The die is cast.” The old quote ran through her mind. She shook her head. No, that wasn’t quite right. 

Mage iacta est. “The spell is cast.” That was it. It was done, finished. She had made her choice and she would have to live with the consequences. There was nothing for her to do now but wait and hope. 

Hope that her spell had not gone awry. 

Hope that she could handle whatever emotions it brought to her. 

Hope against hope that she could save the man she loved, the man she had failed. 

She closed her eyes, waiting patiently for the pain to come.


	3. Crucio

It crippled her when it came. 

It was far, far worse than she had dreamed. How had he done it? How had he survived, living each day with so much heartache? 

It wasn’t just her heart, either. The pain spread gradually through her whole body, reaching, grasping with stinging tendrils. As it spread it consumed her, until she burned from the tips of her long, graceful fingers to the ends of her toes. 

She closed her eyes, trying to flee into her mind, but there was no escape. The agony was all-consuming and she was totally unprepared. 

She fell to her knees with a gasp, grateful for the foresight that had made her lock the door beforehand. She didn’t want anyone to witness this. Falling forward onto her hands, she drew in deep, shaking breaths. Each one burned like fire through her lungs. 

She didn’t notice that she was crying until she saw the teardrops hit the floor. Heavy sobs choked her as she tried desperately to bring the pain inside of her – Harry’s pain – under control. 

She felt despair and guilt, heartache and grief. She felt her heart break over and over again, not knowing why. It was somehow worse without a cause. 

As a string of emotions flashed through her, one after another, it dawned on her. She hadn’t just taken the pain Harry was feeling now. She was reliving all of it, everything he’d ever felt, at lightning speed. She felt scrapes appear and vanish from her knees, saw dark bruises play across her outstretched arms and felt long lashes tear the skin of her back, as if someone had whipped her. 

Her forehead blazed in agony as pangs of angry pain exploded where a lightning scar should have been. 

The injuries began to melt together in her mind – a stabbing pain in her side, a breaking bone in her arm, a burn, a long gash on her arm, a cruel, slicing pain on the back of her hand… 

Beneath the pain, she dimly recognised another emotion: empathy. She’d had no idea how much her friend had suffered. 

She remembered the scars that marred his arms, the lines of pain that had so revolted her the day before. She hadn’t been able to understand then how anyone could bring themselves to inflict such pain upon their own body. 

Now she knew. 

She felt his inner pain as the cuts appeared one by one on her arm and faded quickly away. She felt the relief that the cutting brought – the physical hurt drowning out the ache she felt inside. 

Strangely enough, the emotional injuries were far worse than the physical. Long after the pain of the cuts and bruises had faded away, the grief and guilt remained. She lay on the floor for what felt like days, gasping for air as despair overwhelmed her. 

Finally, she had her emotions under control enough to crawl over and prop herself up on a toilet seat. When she regained the strength to stand, she tottered over to the sink and splashed her face with water. She examined herself in the mirror. She was a mess. 

Red-rimmed eyes peered out of a pale face. They seemed darker, somehow, haunted with grief. She could not bring herself to smile. It was too soon. 

She felt utterly exhausted, drained by the emotional rollercoaster her spell had put her through. She had been forced to feel, not only Harry’s pain, but her own as well. She had felt the guilt and sorrow of the morning multiplied by a thousand as she realised just how blind she had been to her friend’s suffering. She could not help but wonder whether her other friends, whether Ron, Ginny, Luna and Neville, had suffered so much. Was she so terrible a friend that she had failed to acknowledge the darkness in the lives of those she loved? 

She felt small. How could she ever have thought that she had suffered? Her worries over homework and marks seemed petty now. 

Once she had composed herself as best she could, she unlocked the door and slipped out into the dormitory. She was shocked to see that the sky outside the windows was dark. She had been locked inside all day. 

Feeling dead on her feet, she staggered to her bed and crawled beneath the sheets, not even bothering to change, despite the fact that she’d been wearing the same mussed robes for two days straight. 

Exhaustion overwhelmed her. As she melted away into the freedom of sleep, she wondered what Harry was feeling. Had she been successful? Had she saved him? 

If she had, then all of her pain would be worth it. If she hadn’t, well, at least now she understood. 

With that final, comforting thought, Hermione slept.


	4. Incendio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, maybe this is going to be okay! I mean, we've got well-meaning teenagers in love, we've got heroic acts of endurance and selflessness, we've got empathy and friendship and we've got magic to save the day, right? 
> 
> Right? 
> 
> Guys?

“‘Mione!” Ron’s relieved voice echoed through the common room. “Where’ve you been? We’ve been so worried!” 

She grimaced slightly as he half-rose from his chair. 

“I’m fine Ron. I just wasn’t feeling well.” 

“But you missed class. You’ve never missed class…” 

“Stop fretting, Ron. You can see she’s fine.” Harry smiled at her as she walked up to their table. Ron wasn’t smiling. 

“But we checked the hospital wing and you weren’t there. We… I was really worried.” 

For a moment, Hermione’s heart ached. “Harry wasn’t worried?” 

Both boys frowned, Harry only for an instant. A second later, Hermione felt a strange sense of worry cloud her heart, but it, too, passed. 

“No, actually. I wasn’t. I was sure you’d be fine. Now that I think about it, it was… weird.” 

She had to know. “How are you feeling, Harry?” 

He looked up at her, a little surprised at the sudden question, but as he considered the answer, his expression changed to one of genuine happiness. 

“Actually, for the first time in ages, I’m feeling great. Really great!” he smiled and she could see that it was true. There was no darkness in his face, no pain behind his eyes. 

“For once, I actually slept through the night! I feel so rested.” He stretched his arms and illustrated his point with a huge yawn.

She sighed, deeply relieved. She had succeeded. She had not suffered for nothing. 

“Well, that makes one of us, mate.” Ron’s eyes were tired, his face drawn. “I had nightmares all night. Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I can take this. All the stress, the pressure…” 

Hermione frowned, a sudden idea crossing her mind. The thought filled her with dread, but also a strange sense of excitement. Her spell had worked so well with Harry and now she was getting a hold on the emotions… Surely she could handle just one more? 

“I’ve gotta go, guys. I’m… I’m suddenly not feeling so great again. I think I’d better lie down.” 

Ron’s eyes were worried. As Harry tried to feel the same, she felt the emotion well up inside of her. “Do you want us to take you to the hospital wing?” 

She protested quickly. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll probably miss class, though. Can you tell Professor Flitwick?” 

They both nodded, the one looking concerned, the other blissfully content. 

“See you.” With that, she raced back up the stairs into the dormitory. Only Lavender was present and she was just walking out the door as Hermione entered. 

Once again, she shut herself in the bathroom. She knew what she had to do. She loved Ron – not in the same way she loved Harry, but he was still her best friend. She couldn’t stand by and watch him suffer, not now that she had the power to change it. 

She could handle the pain, she was sure. Pressing the tip of her wand to her temple once more, she cried, “Effusio venite!” 

This time she didn’t have to wait. Emotions struck her straight away, knocking her to the tiled floor. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the tsunami. 

It wasn’t nearly so bad as the day before. She wasn’t sure if she’d just gotten used to it, if her pain threshold was higher, or if Ron simply hadn’t suffered like Harry had. Either way, she was grateful for the relief. 

The feelings were weaker, it was true, but she still suffered as she lived Ron’s pain. She felt fury, inadequacy, humiliation. She felt longing and frustration. She lived his injuries, too. A sharp, dizzying blow to the head she recognised as a Queen’s attack and she screamed as fiery pain engulfed her leg, remembering the long night at the Whomping Willow so many years before. 

By the time it was over, she was exhausted. Crawling back into the dormitory, she saw that it was still light outside. This time had been far shorter than the day before. She lay on her bed, dark, dazed eyes staring at the hangings above her without really seeing them, helplessly reliving the heartache. 

Finally she succumbed to sleep, but found no rest there. Nightmares plagued her – not her own, but strange images of other lives. She watched people she loved – the Weasleys, Cedric, Sirius – die slowly, screaming as they writhed in pain. She was haunted by images of a man with a pasty, snake-like face, who smiled sickeningly as he pointed his wand at her chest. Just before dawn, she was wakened by a flash of green light, a high-pitched laugh and the frantic screams of a female voice she’d never heard before. She sat up, jolted out of her dream, breathing hard. She had sweated through her pyjamas and her forehead was burning once more. 

Rubbing it absentmindedly, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed, trying desperately to catch her breath. 

Feeling parched, she staggered to the girl’s bathroom once more, this time making a beeline for the sink. A splash of water rinsed her sweaty face and cleared her sleepy mind. A palmful soothed her aching throat. It felt as if she had torn her lungs apart, screaming as she had for days. 

In the dim glow of the candle perched on the edge of the vanity, she peered at her reflection in the mirror. Her exhausted face stared back at her with red-rimmed eyes, but it was not her haggard appearance that made her look closer. After all, she had never been one to obsess over appearance. No, it was not the heavy bags that underscored her eyes, nor the hopeless, helpless expression on her weary face that had captured her attention. It was the thin, jagged red line that now ran diagonally across her forehead. 

Frowning, she fingered it gingerly. As the tip of her forefinger touched it, it began to throb, just as it had as she dreamt. Her heart clenched in her chest as she recognised it, as she realised what it meant. 

She now no longer simply felt Harry’s pain – she had assumed his burdens, too. She had taken on the things in his life that caused him pain, including his emotions, his nightmares and now, his scar. 

What had she done?


	5. Confundo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some excellent decision making skills being displayed here. Well done, Hermione. Well done.

"It's like… I don't know… It's like I want to feel the pain – I can sense that I should be hurting. I almost feel it for a second, but then it's gone. I don't understand – what's going on?"  
Harry's face was relaxed, contrasting with the worried words he spoke. His eyes glowed softly as he basked in the warmth of the flickering Common Room fire.

"I dunno, but it's the same for me. And it's not just with big things. Like yesterday, I stubbed my toe outside of Charms. It didn't even hurt for a second! I don't get it. It's like someone won't let us suffer." 

"Do you think it's Voldemort?

Ron flinched. Six years of friendship with Harry could not make up for a lifetime's habits. He could never be comfortable saying the name.

"Maybe… but why? It seems like it's helping us, if anything. Honestly, it doesn't seem like a very Dark Lord-y thing to do."

They both turned to the third member of their group, expecting her input. When she said nothing, they both raised their eyebrows. It didn't even look like she'd been listening.

"What do you think, Hermione?" Harry reached out to touch her shoulder gently. The contact made her start and look around abruptly, as if she hadn't been aware of their presence.

"What?" she asked, her voice a little too high-pitched. Her face was strained, her lips pursed.

"I said, what do you think? About the pain thing?"

She looked confused.

"Pain?" A muscle twitched beside her right eye.

"Are you all right, 'Mione?" Ron looked at her intently, searching her face. "You don't look so good."

"Me?" Her voice was wary now, defensive. "I'm fine."

Neither looked as if they believed her. Annoyed, she glared at them until they continued.

"Ok, so what do you think about this pain thing? Ron and I haven't been able to feel any for the past week or so now. Have you had the same thing?"

Her eyes widened slightly, finally comprehending. "Oh, that! Yeah, I've had the same thing. It's really weird, isn't it?" She didn't meet their eyes, but neither boy seemed to notice.

"I don't reckon it's Voldemort," Harry continued. "He'd hardly want us to suffer less, right?"

"I don't know…" Hermione's voice was hesitant, her eyes shifting as she tried to steer her friends off track. The last thing she wanted was for them to find out what she'd done. "It could be anything. If you like, I'll do some research."

Harry shook his head. "No, you're dead on your feet. You work yourself too hard. You need a break. Let Ron and I do it."

Ron's eyes widened in dread at the thought of study, then glassed over happily as the emotion fled. As she watched his face change, Hermione felt the stab of dread in her own stomach. She breathed in sharply, a sound the boys misinterpreted.

"Ok, ok. I know we're not exactly strong in the research department." Harry's eyes were laughing now. "No need to freak out. We'll let you do it."

The emotion passed and Hermione was able to force a smile. "Great. I'd better get to work then." She started to rise as the boys protested.

"What, now?"

"It's late, 'Mione!"

"The library's probably closed…"

She shook her head, determined. She desperately needed some time to herself. Study was the perfect cover.  
"I'll be back before you know it." With a small wave, she disappeared from the room.

Harry glanced at Ron as the portrait swung shut behind her.

"Something's up with Hermione." His tone was decided, concerned.

Ron frowned slightly, then his brow cleared. "I know, Harry. I feel it too. But it's like every time I start to worry, the thoughts just slip away. It's like… I dunno… I'm not allowed to feel bad for her? It's like someone's stealing my emotions."

"It's strange…"

"It's creepy, is what it is."

Harry paused, contemplating what his friend had said. "Maybe you're right… Maybe this is dark magic. Maybe…" He stopped, lost in thought.

"What?" Ron looked puzzled. This was evidently an emotion he was allowed to keep.

"Maybe they're trying to split us apart. If we can't worry when things start to go wrong, we won't be able to prepare, or stop them…" Harry's face was clouded for a moment. "If only we could do something…"

"S'okay. Hermione'll figure it out eventually. Until then, we can just enjoy being pain-free for a while."

Harry frowned briefly, his eyes sad. It only lasted an instant, then he was content once more.

"Okay. I just – I hope Hermione's alright…"

"I'm sure she's fine. Don't worry!"

Ron smiled at him and Harry gave in and grinned back, all painful thoughts gone. Together they settled down to a game of Wizard's Chess.

As the girl in question walked quickly through the castle halls, she felt a smorgasbord of emotions assault her. First came worry, then more dread, followed by a sudden sadness that ached beneath her breastbone. When the sadness struck, she was forced to stop. Bracing her hands on her knees, she made herself breathe deeply until it passed.

The feelings of three people were simply too much for one small girl to handle. She found herself overwhelmed by the tide of emotions that swamped her every day. It was worse because she had no control over it – she never knew what would hit her next and, when an emotion finally did strike, she never knew what had caused it. The suspense and constant tension had worn her nerves as bald as vintage tires.

She lived in anticipation of pain, and her expectation was usually rewarded. That is, if you could call it a reward. Perhaps it was better to say that her expectation was usually punished.

She straightened suddenly as two first years came careening around the corner, shouting and waving multicoloured flags maniacally, clearly headed for the Gryffindor common room. When they caught sight of the prefect, they immediately curbed their enthusiastic antics and slowed to a walk. They ducked their heads as the passed her, awkwardly attempting to conceal the red and gold banners behind their backs. As soon as they were out of her line of sight, their zeal returned and she could hear their heated discussion resume as they rounded the next corner.

She sighed. She had forgotten that there was a match on Saturday. It was not something she was looking forward to. She had never been a fan of Quidditch, but in the past Harry's skill and Ron's infectious passion had made attendance tolerable.

Now, though, the prospect of the crowded match was dreadful, and the idea of mirroring the rollercoaster of her friends' adrenaline-fuelled emotions daunting. They would be heartbroken if she stayed away, but she knew that she would suffer come Saturday, and that it could be far better endured away from wondering eyes.

Picturing the sinking swoop of broomsticks and the dull thud of clubs on bludgers, she swayed slightly, and swallowed back the sickly feeling rising in her throat. She would have to find a way to get out of the match, even if it meant hurting Harry.

It didn't matter, anyway, for what was hurting Harry now, but hurting herself?

She clenched her fists, opened her eyes and shoved the darkness back into the corner of her mind, leaving peaceful, blank space in it's wake. She was gradually learning to cope with the pain. Necessity was the most effective teacher.

Resolutely, she headed towards the library, her adopted cover serving a double purpose now as her solace. Maybe she could do some research, see if there were any alternative explanations she could offer Harry and Ron to steer them off of her track. Step by weary step, she walked towards her alibi, feeling drained and beleaguered. The corridor blurred in her vision as she neared the library steps.

She climbed them, staring intently at the shaking stones to maintain her balance. She was brought up short at the sight of the heavy oak door, clearly closed for the night. Exhaustion and desperation dropped her to her knees, then onto her side. As she lay before the entrance, a stray wave of annoyance floated through her, followed by a sharp pain in her foot. With distant bemusement, she realised that Ron had stubbed his toe again.

Tears ran down her cheeks, collecting in the corners of her bitter smile. This was what her grand plans for salvation had come to: swollen toes and niggling fears. She shook her head at her folly. She was pathetic. A thousand inconveniences, each inconsequential alone, had combined to bring her rapidly to the brink.

Her friends lived with this every day, she told herself disgustedly. Harry had survived a lifetime of fear and frustration, anger and abuse, and never shown a single chink in his armour. He had shown strength beyond his years. How could she be so weak?

The thought of her Harry was enough to gradually get her on her feet again, the thought of his suffering enough to dampen the ache of her own and reawaken her determination.

There would be no more self-pity, she resolved. She had started this and she would see it though. It didn't matter that she was in pain; all that mattered was that her spell was working. What she was feeling was no more than a price that had to be paid, a penalty freely chosen. She would hide her pain away where nobody could see it, and go on as normally as possible. She would go to class, smile politely for her teachers and cheer with the crowds at the Quidditch match. She would carry on and, at all costs, she would never let her friends see what she had done.


	6. Levicorpus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now we throw contact sports into the mix. What could possibly go wrong?

The following Saturday dawned bright and clear, perfect weather for a match.

Perfect weather for a showdown.

The crowds of students shone with vibrant reds and greens as they made their way through the grounds to the pitch. The air hummed with excitement and players peered from their tents below as the spindly stands slowly filled.

Hermione, sandwiched between Ron and Hagrid on the edge of the Gryffindor crowd, was beginning to regret her decision to attend the match. All morning her stomach had been doing acrobatics, tying butterflies in knots as she channelled Harry's nerves. She had toyed with the idea of feigning sickness and blockading herself in her dormitory, but the thought of suffering the barrage of sport-fuelled agitation alone, ignorant of what was happening on the pitch, was more daunting than facing the crowds. Besides, she had spent too much time alone recently. People were starting to notice.

So she had come, rugged up in jumpers, robes and scarf, hiding between her friends. Beside the rambunctious Ron and hulking Hagrid, she could huddle unobserved, cradling her stomach and bracing herself for the frenzy.

The players filed out onto the field and her belly did flip-flops. As Madame Hooch blew her whistle and feet kicked off the ground, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to block out the world around her.

She paid little attention to the match itself, watching only Harry as he flitted above the other players, searching diligently for the snitch while the quaffle darted back and forth, a red blur beneath him. In the air, his breathing calmed and his heartbeat slowed as he began to relax. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad.

Hearing her soft sigh, Ron looked down at his friend for perhaps the first time that morning. He'd smiled sleepily at her over breakfast and prattled to her about tactics and World Cup history on the way down from the common room, but he had been so wrapped up in the euphoria of Quidditch that he had barely given her a glance. Now, he looked, really looked at the pale bundle of clothing beside him. Concern and pity tried to well up inside him. Instead, it found her.

She winced. He noticed.

"Uh, 'Mione?" His voice was tentative, unsure. She raised an eyebrow, but didn't look at him. Her gaze was fixed on Harry, whose safety guaranteed her own.

"Mmmhmm?"

"Are you alright?"

She looked at him impatiently. Of all the times for him to ask! She was trying to follow Harry!

"I'm fine, Ron. Watch the match." She returned to her vigil, gritting her teeth in frustration as his concern grew. He pursed his lips and tried again.

"It's just…" He paused, unsure how to continue.

"What?", she exclaimed, exasperated.

"It's just, you don't look so good."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks ever so."

"I mean it, 'Mione. You don't look well. Maybe you're still sick…"

Her patience had worn thin. "Yes, I'm sick! I'm sick of you asking if I'm ok! I'm fine, Ronald. Can we please have this conversation later?"

Harry had spotted something, she could tell. She felt the rush of anticipation and saw him shoot upwards into the sky.

"I think you've been working too hard. Maybe you should lay off the research for a bit."

It was the snitch. She could see it, too, a tiny speck glistening in the air high above them. Harry was headed straight for it.

"I'm serious. You spend all your time in the library. We never see you any more."

Something was wrong. The snitch had dropped out of sight. Confusion plagued her as he searched, eyes frantically sweeping the air above and finally turning to the pitch far, far below.

"You need some time off. You know, there's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up. Maybe we could go to the Three Broomsticks…"

"I feel sick." Her stomach swooped as Harry dropped into a nose dive, chasing the snitch as it barrelled straight towards the ground.

Clasping her hands to her mouth, she stumbled to her feet, thrusting her way doggedly along the row of distracted spectators. She needed to escape. She could hear Ron calling after her, but his voice cut off as his attention was drawn back to the match, back to Harry, who was now plummeting to the earth at top speed, showing no signs of slowing down.

Cold hard fear gripped her; her own and Harry's. She stumbled to the stairs at the side of the podium, desperately clinging to the railing as first her knees, then her trembling fingers gave way and she toppled forward. In a final surge of strength, she tucked her head and wrapped her arms around it. It wasn't much, but it was all she could manage. She was glad she'd worn so many layers. Her defence against the cold meant that she wouldn't have as many bruises in the morning.

The stairs were cruel and unforgiving, striking shoulders, arms and legs as she tumbled downwards. Her momentum matched the sinking in her heart as she unwillingly mirrored Harry's descent.

The roar of the crowd erupted as she rolled onto the ground. She opened her eyes to see the world spinning drunkenly. It was too much. She closed them again.  
She did not know how long she lay there. It felt like an eternity, but could not have been more than five minutes. As the first footsteps sounded on the stairs above her, she dragged herself to her hands and knees and crawled excruciatingly slowly to the space beneath the fabric of the stands, desperate to hide her battered body from her peers. She knew she could not let anyone find her like this, least of all a teacher. Finally, safely concealed beneath the red and gold drapery, she collapsed. Cool dirt pressed into the side of her head as she drew ragged breaths.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breath out.

In.

Out.

In…

Out…

Her pounding heart calmed. Her aching head began to clear.

She could hear the sounds of students laughing and talking excitedly around her. From the happy chatter some part of her recognised that Gryffindor must have won. Harry had done it.

She tried to smile.

The world began to tilt again and she swallowed, tasting the copper tang of blood in her mouth as the cross beams above righted themselves in her vision. She paid them little attention, turning her mind inward to assess the damage.

She slowly took stock of her injuries, flexing muscles and testing bones. As she shifted her shoulders, sharp pain shot through her side. A clenched fist made her gasp with pain. That meant a cracked rib and a broken arm. Her mental checklist of injuries grew steadily as the footsteps pounding over her head began to fade. The students were returning to the school, preparing to celebrate their victory. Hearing the last sounds of their laughter die away, she exhaled slowly.

It would be too risky to try for the castle now. If she attempted to cross the vast green grounds in her condition, she was bound to be seen. She wasn't sure she could make it that far, even if she wanted to. Just keeping her eyes open seemed too much for the moment.

Letting her head drop back against the ground, she felt consciousness gently slip away. Here, it was quiet and cool. Here, there was no-one to discover her. Here, she told herself soothingly, here, she could rest, just for a little while.

 

"What the hell did you think you were doing, Harry!"

Ron's ears blazed as he stared at his friend with a mixture of shock and fury. His face twisted as he warred with the spell.

"Winning." Harry threw his friend a lopsided grin, then turned to finish pulling off his gear.

"Winning! You could have killed yourself!" Ron drew in two long breaths, trying to calm himself. Aided by the effects of the spell, he succeeded. "Bloody hell. You know I'm all for beating Slytherin, mate, but I'd rather lose and have you in one piece."

"Ok, ok." Harry dismissed his friend with a casual wave of a padded wristguard. "I get it. Cut down on the daredevil routine. Check." He paused mid-strap, then looked up, smiling mischievously. "It looked pretty cool, though, didn't it?"

Try as he might, Ron couldn't smother a grin. "Yeah, actually," he confessed. "The teachers nearly chucked a fit. You should've seen their faces. I thought Moody's eye was gonna pop out!"

Harry grinned back at him, reminding Ron why he'd been angry. Lately it was becoming too easy to forget.

"But that's not the point, Harry. You could've killed yourself, just for a Quidditch match. It's not worth it."

"To be fair, it was a really important Quidditch match…"

"That's not funny!" Ron sounded desperate now. A lifetime spent trying to control his rampant temper had ill prepared him to fight to keep it alight. He sighed, gave up the struggle and adopted a softer tone. "I'm worried about you, Harry. At least, I would be if this stupid curse would let me feel anything."

"Why? Because of a stupid stunt? Ron, I've done much worse than this before and you know it. It's just Quidditch. You've got to take a few risks to win. Besides, I'm fine."

"Don't try to brush this off. You know that was different, before. Those times, it was Dementors, or rogue bludgers, or, or bloody Quirrell trying to kill you. It wasn't you, and anyway, those times, you… you reacted. I saw your face out there, today, Harry. It was… blank."

"Blank? No, Ron, I –"

"Look, I don't know what's happening to us and I don't know why it's happening. I can't even feel frightened, which just scares me all the more. I don't know, but… I think… I think you were right, before. I think someone is doing this to us, trying to hurt us. Trying to hurt you, probably. I mean, come on! You nearly killed yourself out there! Were you scared? Worried? Excited? Did you even feel anything?"

Harry stayed silent, but his eyes never left his friend.

"See? That's not right. You can't walk away from something like that and just be fine."

For a moment Harry paused. Ron tensed, waiting for the explosion. Then suddenly, the pressure broke, the strain faded and he smiled widely and winningly.

"But I am fine. Nothing happened. I'm not hurt and we won the match. Stop worrying."

"That's not the point and you know it." He smiled bitterly. "It's getting worse, Harry. Every day, I feel… less. I know you do, too."

Harry sighed, realising that Ron was not going to let this go. "I know. You're right. But what can we do about it? It's like you said: Hermione's doing the research. She'll find out what's going on. Until she does, we may as well sit back and enjoy it."

"That's the problem, though. I think, if I let myself, I'll enjoy it too much."

Harry looked at his friend, surprised. It was not often that Ron showed his depths.

"Too much?"

"Yeah," Ron met his friend's eyes pointedly, but there was no accusation in his gaze. "And I'm afraid you already are."


	7. Descendo

"Miss Granger, where is your essay?" McGonagall looked a little startled, as if it were a question she had never expected to ask.

"I don't have it, Professor." She did not raise her eyes from the floor as she spoke.

"What do you mean, you 'don't have it'?" The elderly witch seemed more startled than angry.

"I mean, I didn't finish it, Professor." Her voice was small and lifeless.

The entire class had come to a stand-still, their attention fixated on the exchange. Several of them felt as if the world might be coming to an end – Hermione Granger not finishing her homework? How was it possible?

Beside her, Ron and Harry were watching their friend calmly. When she had first spoken, they had stared at her with faces like fresh caught fish, mouths hanging open and eyes wide in surprise and horror. But the moment had passed and their expressions had returned to their usual set of quiet contentment.

The other students, seeing this, began to relax. If Ron and Harry weren't worried about their friend, why should they be? After all, they knew her better than anyone. Surely they would know if something were wrong.

Still, a few faces remained concerned. Neville's eyebrows were knit together in puzzled concentration and Draco's were arched in surprise.

McGonagall was flabbergasted, entirely unaffected by the mood of the class. How was it possible that her best student had not completed the work? In six years of classes, through disasters, deaths, near-apocalypses and even petrification, Hermione Granger had never missed an assignment. What could have happened now to change that?

Examining the young woman before her, Minerva could see that she had changed. Gone was the buoyant girl with a smiling face, an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and the spark of intelligence in her eyes. The smile was nowhere to be seen and her eyes were staring blankly, cold and dead. Sudden fear struck the teacher's heart. Something had gone seriously wrong here. Something had happened to this girl, something bad, and nobody had noticed.

Fear and guilt coupled with concern clouded McGonagall's expression. She was responsible for students in her house – she was responsible for this.

Glancing at the two boys seated beside the girl in question, she was shocked to see nonchalance on their faces. How could they be unaffected by the scene before them? How could they be so unfeeling? Unless… unless they already knew what was wrong? Unless they were responsible…

Lost in her thoughts, McGonagall came to with a sudden start. She had unfairly kept Miss Granger standing in front of the class as she pondered the situation. She had made her suffer more humiliation than was due. She could see, though, that the girl didn't seem to mind. She did not even seem to be aware of what was happening. She appeared to be lost in thoughts of her own.

"You may be seated, Miss Granger. Ten points will be taken from Gryffindor and I would appreciate it if you would come to see me after class."

The girl nodded mutely as she sank into her chair. She felt detached from the scene, as if she were watching it happen to someone else.

She'd been feeling that a lot lately. Everyday emotions had become too petty even to register and her own feelings were so irretrievably mixed with Ron and Harry's that she hardly knew which were which. Causes had become unimportant – only pain mattered now. Pain and how to dull it.

Since the day of the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match, when she had lain for hours beneath the stands, unable to find the will to move, she had withdrawn inside herself. The long midnight struggle from the pitch to the castle was etched into her memory, as was the sting of the realisation that nobody had noticed her absence. Not even Ron. Not even Harry.

Once she had regained her strength, a few well-placed healing charms and a glamour or two were enough to hide her injuries. She was thankful that she had thought to cover her head as she fell. Robes could cover the bruises on her body and no-one could see what was in her heart, but her face she could not hide.

Ron had not tried to resume his interrogation. He seemed less and less disturbed by problems every day. Even homework had ceased to annoy him. Harry was happier still, floating around the castle as if he were permanently on a broom.

It warmed her deadened heart to see what she had done for them. She knew her spell had helped Harry to win his match and she knew she was the cause of their constant contentment. It was that knowledge that kept her going. That knowledge, and the hope of Harry that still burned softly within her heart. No amount of suffering had been able to change how she felt about him. Lately, it was the only emotion she recognised, other than suffering. There was pain, and there was Harry.

Lost in these musings, she barely noticed when class ended. Looking up for the first time in an hour, she saw that the room was empty except for McGonagall. She sighed slightly, not looking forward to the confrontation.

Then again, there wasn't much her teacher could do now. It was a little late for interventions.

She slowly got to her feet and made her way to the front of the classroom, not even bothering to gather her books first. Stopping in front of her teacher's desk, she dropped her eyes to the floor and, in a soft voice, asked, "Professor?"

McGonagall had watched this display in shocked silence. Inwardly, she cursed herself. How had she not seen this? How had she let it go so far?

She knew the answer – she had not been looking. It had been a long time since any Hogwarts student had acted like this. At a school where the students were watched over by powerful teachers, where each had a house to support them, where miracles were everyday occurrences and happiness could be brewed in the classroom, it was rare that anyone became depressed. Not in decades had a Hogwarts student been neglected. Even those who were bullied or ostracised found their place, found some friends. She had come to think of Hogwarts as a paradise and she had come to believe that nothing bad could happen to her students while she was there to guard them. She had been overconfident and now a student had suffered for it.

"Miss Granger – Hermione. Would you please look at me?"

Without a fuss, without a moment's hesitation, the girl raised her eyes to meet the ones framed by horn-rimmed glasses. McGonagall could see nothing in those eyes – not pain or joy, not frustration or the apprehension she was so used to seeing in the eyes of students called to meet her. There was just nothing.  
She swallowed deeply.

"Hermione, is there something wrong?"

"No, Professor, everything's fine." Her voice was mechanical, as if she had spoken the automatic response many times.

"I ask because it's not like you to neglect your classwork."

"I'm sorry, Professor. It won't happen again." Her eyes dropped back to the floor.

"That's not the point. I –," she paused, unsure how to continue. "I've noticed that you've not quite been… yourself lately."

"Professor?"

"You seem unhappy, Hermione. Did something happen? Is there something going on with Mr Potter and Mr Weasley?"

"No, Professor."

"Well, what about… bo–… men? Are you… seeing anyone in particular?"

Most students would have blushed and stammered out an embarrassed response – McGonagall herself had turned slightly red at this question, but Hermione's face didn't change at all as she replied, "No, Professor."

"Hermione, you know that if there's anything the matter, you can tell me. I'm here to help. That's my job. But more than that, I… I care about you, about all my students. Please, tell me what's wrong."

Now, finally, Hermione looked up of her own accord. It seemed as if something had finally registered. The lines in her face smoothed and she managed a small smile.  
"Truly, Professor, I'm fine. I'm just swamped with work at the moment. That's why I didn't finish the essay. I'll have it for you by tomorrow, I promise."

McGonagall stared at her intently, her sharp eyes picking out her weary eyes, clenched jaw and more than usually frazzled hair. She knew that 'fine' was the last word she would use to describe Hermione Granger.

"Is that all, Professor?" Her face had returned to its muted expression of suppressed pain. "I have to get to Herbology…"

The comment woke McGonagall from her reverie.

"Yes, yes. Of course. You may go, Miss Granger."

Hermione nodded, collected her books from the desk and made for the door. As she crossed the threshold, her Professor called her back.

"Hermione?"

Sighing inwardly, Hermione turned. "Yes?"

"Don't forget what I said. I meant it."

"Of course, Professor." She scuttled from the room as fast as she could, before McGonagall could detain her further with cryptic remarks and scrutinising stares. Her last comment was a mystery to Hermione, for, try as she might, she could not remember what on earth it was that McGonagall had said to her.

She only hoped it wasn't anything important. Another meeting after class would be inconvenient. The witch was far too observant for her good.

With that thought in mind, she hurried down the corridor in the direction of the Greenhouses, never even glancing behind her.

If she had, she would have seen the wiry woman watching her intently from the doorway through horn-rimmed glasses, an expression of great fear on her angular face.


	8. Relashio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains self harm. 
> 
> If any of the issues raised in this story are triggers for you, I'm sorry. Please feel free to message me to talk about it. You can reach me through my inbox. I'm no professional, but I'm always willing to listen or beta or distract with heated fandom debates or titillating shipping scenarios.   
> If you would like to talk to someone more qualified, I recommend https://www.imalive.org/  
> It's like a help hotline, but online, with text chat. No actual phoning or speaking required.

Seated cross-legged on a rickety desk in the Room of Requirement, Harry Potter was lost in thought.

Staring into space, mind racing, he absent-mindedly fingered the long silver blade resting flat across his thigh. It's elegant hilt was encrusted with ruby red gems, it's vicious blade with what looked like dried blood.

Nothing in his face changed, but it was clear nevertheless that he had come to a decision. He rolled up his left sleeve and took up the dagger with firm certainty.

He laid the tip on the pale skin of his forearm, in the groove left by two long, parallel scars. The knife indented his flesh as he began to apply pressure. Closing his eyes, he drew the blade along its path and waited for relief to come.

For a moment he was frozen, suspended in a tableau of expectation, then dark brows snapped together in annoyance. Emerald eyes opened to glare at the line of trickling blood.

He gritted his teeth and tried again, pressing harder, deeper this time, watching as the blade bit mercilessly into his arm. Raising the knife, he regarded the second cut, lips trembling imperceptibly. Blood flowed more strongly now, dripping onto his robes, but he felt nothing. Unsatisfied, he placed the point once more beside a fading scar.

Tears ran down his expressionless face now, carving damp tracks on his cheeks as he dragged the faithless blade across his wrist again and again. It stuttered over the skin, leaving ugly, jagged lines that glistened in the light of the lantern beside him, a mockery of his tears' graceful path.

Those silent tears were the only outward signs of his frustration and incomprehension. Through everything that had happened over the past few years, through grief and loss, through guilt and blame, he had always had his knife to see him through. Whenever the pain had become too much to handle, he had turned with secret shame to his blade for relief and reprieve. It had never failed him before. Why was this happening now?

Fear and frustration merged in his mind, overwhelming rational thought. His arm moved back and forth, caught in the repetitive cycle of the well-remembered action. Each cut was steadier and with every movement his tears slowed, until they finally stopped falling altogether.

Before, the sharp pain of cutting had relieved the deeper ache inside, his salvation in isolation. Now, the sensation was amplified a thousandfold. Each cut hurt less; every wound dulled and numbed his disquieted heart. It was as if the more he suffered, the less he felt.

Instead of giving him release, the new numbness frightened him. He had wanted to dull the anger and the guilt, to manage his pain, but he had not wanted this, this total deadening.

The spell had seemed so harmless, when it was just stubbed toes and Quidditch stunts. His initial fears had faded with the thrill of invulnerability and the heady rush of relief, but deep down, he had known all along that Ron was right. This was a curse, destructive and insidious. Seduced by its power, he had allowed himself to enjoy his freedom too much, and now he was suffering for it.

He had been cruelly burdened with the ultimate punishment: a wish come true. He had been given the relief he'd always wanted, but with it came reprisal. His mouth twisted as he pondered the irony. Here he was, finally free from pain, longing to feel its sting again.

He wondered, now: had he really cut to be free from pain, or had he cut to feel it? Had he cut to control it?

It hardly mattered now. It was too late. The pain was gone, and he felt dead inside.

No!

Something deep within him rebelled, defying the dampening effects of the spell. He could not let this be the end. He could not let this oblivion overtake him. After years of living with the lion's share of empathy and heartache, this sudden nothingness was too much to bear. He could not let his addiction drain away the last real feelings from his heart.

His hand froze in midair. The blade, suspended, dripped irregularly into his lap.

He had to stop, while there still remained the vestiges of emotion within him. He had to protect himself, avoid injury and heartache and save whatever was left for him to feel.

Resignation settled on his shoulders with an almost tangible weight. It was over. He knew he could not cut again.

The blade clattered to the floor. He didn't seem to notice.

The words resounded in his hanging head.

Over. Over. Over.

He could not cut again.

Pale shades of anger haunted him at the thought. He needed this. He needed to feel. Without pain, he could not cut. Without cutting, he could not cope. This outrage was denying him his only solace, turning him into the cold, unfeeling monster he had always feared he would somehow become.

He had to stop the spell.

The impulse to move was muted, as if compelling him from a great distance. It was small, but it was still there, a fragment of his damaged conscience calling him to act.

A quick, whispered scourgify banished the blood from his clothing. A glace at the Marauder's Map confirmed his friends were in the common room. He got to his feet and vanished the blade.

He knew what he had to do – he knew, even through the fog of apathetic contentment. He had to talk to Hermione and find out what she had learned. If this curse could be stopped, if there were any way, he had to know.

He couldn't go on like this. He didn't have long before the last traces of passion, of compassion, were drained from him. If he wanted to save himself, if he wanted to remain Harry Potter, he had to find Hermione.

She would know what to do.


	9. Oppugno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains torture.

Despite the security of the map, he left the room furtively. Long experience hiding his addiction had taught him that it never hurt to be too cautious.

He made it through three corridors and up two sets of stairs before he saw a soul. He was just beginning to congratulate himself on a perfect escape when a voice called out behind him.

"Wait up, Potter."

The crisp, commanding tone echoed through the empty hallway. Harry turned instinctively, but upon seeing his rival striding to catch up with him, he kept walking towards Gryffindor tower. The last thing he wanted was a conversation with Malfoy.

"Potter!" The voice was indignant now, and closer. Realising he couldn't avoid a confrontation, Harry sighed, slowed his steps and reluctantly turned around.

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

The other boy stopped in his tracks, yards of corridor still stretching between them. He seemed unwilling to come closer, unwilling to say what he had come so determinedly to say.

Out of patience, Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine."

He turned back towards the tower, perfectly ready to forego an altercation.

"No, wait." It was the uncertainty in Malfoy's voice that made him stop. He had never heard him sound so conflicted.

Harry turned to face him again, bored of the banter.

"I don't have all day."

"I wanted to know…" He hesitated.

Harry tapped his foot impatiently. He had to get to the tower. "Yes…?"

The Slytherin glared at him, then demanded rather quickly, "What's wrong with Granger?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What do you care?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, suddenly defensive.

"Well, isn't she just a "filthy little mudblood"? What do you care what's wrong with her?"

He actually blushed. Against his translucent skin, it seemed almost indecent.

"I couldn't care less," he insisted, clenching his fists. "I just wanted to know what you two've done to her. Whatever it is, I wish I'd thought of it years ago."

"We haven't done anything, you slimy git." There was the barest touch of anger in his voice, but it faded as he spoke. "Slimy git" sounded almost half-hearted.

"So, who has?" He sounded genuinely curious. "I just figured it was you two because of your total lack of caring."

"Nobody's done anything. I'm sure you'll be thrilled to hear she's fine." There was a note of finality, of dismissal in his voice. He wanted this pleasant little chat to be over.

"Sure. She forgets to finish her Transfiguration homework for the first time in six years because everything's peachy." Sarcasm came as naturally to him as breathing, and riled Harry as nothing but an old rival's ridicule could.

"You think we wouldn't know if something were wrong? You think a snake like you could see something we can't?"

Malfoy sneered. "Yeah, because you're so omniscient when it comes to Granger."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, wake up, Potter! I've never met anyone so self-righteously blind. You'd think with that big head of yours you'd walk around expecting every girl you meet to fall for you."

Harry frowned, confused, until the spell cleared his brow. "Shut up, Malfoy. I don't need this right now."

"Wah, wah. Poor whiny Potter. Me, me, me! I, I, I! Don't you ever think about anyone else? You don't need this? Did you think that maybe Granger needs this? And do you really think I want to be here? If you and that speckled idiot were even half decent friends, you'd have seen that something's wrong with that girl weeks ago and I wouldn't have had to say anything."

"I don't have to stand here and take this. Not from you."

"Yes, you do. Not for me, not for you, but for her. She's your friend. You owe her that much. Actually, you owe her much more."

"And what would you know about friends?" Malfoy had managed to dredge a mien of cruelty from his heart. The spell seemed to allow it. Harry revelled as loathing and disdain dripped easily from his lips.

"Ouch, Potter's still got bite. And here I thought you'd even lost your bark."

"Go to hell, Malfoy." His tone was bored now, the flashes of anger weaker with every passing second, and he turned away, determined to leave. He hadn't gone two steps when the force of the stunning spell knocked him off his feet. It was cowardly, he thought as it struck, to attack while his back was turned.

He felt the force of the spell, but no pain, no effects. He clambered to his feet and turned for the umpteenth time to face Malfoy, who was shocked to see Harry rise unhindered.

"Stupefy!" This time, he braced himself. Ready for the impact, the spell did no more than jolt him a few centimetres backwards.

He looked up and came face-to-face with Malfoy, wide-eyed and, if possible, even paler than usual with shock.

"How – How did you do that?" His voice was shaking, the facade of bravado faltering.

"Wouldn't you love to know?" Harry's tone was mocking and cold, his anger turned to freezing scorn.

"It's not possible…" Draco shook his head, disbelieving.

"Oh, but it is." Harry looked him in the eyes, challenging him; daring him with icy contempt. "Words, spells, no matter what you do, Malfoy, you can't hurt me. Go ahead – try."

He spread his arms out wide before his enemy, presenting him with an easy target.

The boy's eyes were doubtful, but he raised his wand to point at Harry's chest with a hand that trembled imperceptibly.

"You asked for it." His voice was small, now. "Sectumsempra!"

For a split second, Harry was surprised. Where had Malfoy learnt that curse? Then the spell struck him softly and the feeling passed. Desperation, rage, longing, fear: all passed away, even the quiet, constant need that was his call to cut. As the spell spread through his body, he felt the last vestiges of warmth drain away, leaving him utterly cold and empty.

He drew a deep, slow breath, testing his lungs, flexing his fingers and toes. Something important had changed, he could feel it.

Absorbed in himself, Harry slowly looked down at his torso, calmly examining the ragged, gaping wounds as they spread across his body, seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. Stretching his bare arms out before him, he watched with cool interest as his skin split open and warm blood began to well in the wounds.

There was no pain, but then, he had expected none. He felt only a strange chill as the slight breeze wafting through the hallway brushed against his freshly exposed skin, cooling the streams of blood that were beginning to flow down his forearms, dripping softly from his fingertips to the stony floor.

He raised an eyebrow as he inspected the damage, remembering a time when the mere mention of this curse had filled him with dread. Now, he felt nothing.

Standing shellshocked at the end of the corridor, all but forgotten by Harry, Draco shuddered involuntarily.

Recalled to reality by the sudden movement, Harry slowly raised his eyes to the pale boy cowering in the corridor, the weakling who watched as his enemy bled, unmoved, before him.

Enemy? How could Malfoy be worthy of the word, when Voldemort still stood, an ever-present reminder of what it truly meant?

He tilted his head slightly, considering the Slytherin.

Like the curse, the sight of Malfoy had once filled him with dread. They had been enemies – real enemies. Rivals in sport, equals in power: the ice prince of Slytherin and the golden boy of Gryffindor.

But that was a long time ago, when classes and Quidditch still mattered, when the bad guys could be soundly defeated by the end of the school term and when, no matter what, magic could make the world right again.

What had happened? How could so little time have wrought so great a change, that the rival he had once feared and loathed now inspired only passing contempt?

The boy at the end of the corridor certainly looked the same, watching him with his handsome, pale face and arrogant stance.

The disdainful swagger was the same, as was the petty bullying and pathetic racist diatribe.

No, Harry knew it was not Malfoy who had changed.

He was not the same boy he once was.

He was not the same boy who had watched in helpless horror as Cedric was murdered before his eyes. Not the same boy who had let his godfather's killer walk away unscathed. The spell had worked it's final magic, and now he could feel nothing left within him but an eerie calm.

Where once he had been vulnerable, he was now immune. Where once he had burned with passion, with anger and with scarlet righteousness, he was now cold. He was cold, and the cold was more than skin deep.

No, he was not the same boy he once was.

But perhaps, perhaps this part of him had always been there somewhere, lying latent, bound by pain and that cruelest of all curses – empathy.

It had been in his mind when he watched Dumbledore with eyes of homicidal hatred and in his heart when he screamed the killing curse at Bellatrix. Had it even been there when he had set that python on his cousin, so many years before?

It had certainly been there when he had watched Umbridge through the long hours of detention, writing her doom in his own blood.

Tamed, tempered, dormant - but always there.

Now he was free. He was free and he was powerful.

Ever so slowly, a smile spread across his face and his eyes glinted, hard in the light of the dying day.

Draco took an unsteady step backwards, utterly unable to stand strong in the face of the monster he saw. He was a vision of hell: bold, bloody and terrifying; smiling sadistically as the crimson colour of his house slowly soaked his robes and skin.

"Y-you… What did you do?" His wand trembled violently in his hand. "How did you – ?"

"Crucio." He spoke the word softly, but it echoed in the cavernous corridor until it was drowned by the screams of the Slytherin.

"Muffliato."

The screaming stopped abruptly and he moved closer to watch his rival writhe in silent agony. Malfoy's face and body twisted unnaturally, contorted by the torturous curse.

"This, Draco, is how it feels."

The boy on the floor paid no attention, lost in his suffering.

"This is pain."

Something in the cold voice broke through and Malfoy twisted his strained face towards his bloodied tormentor, pale cheeks flushed red, dark veins stark against paper thin skin.

He saw contempt and triumph, mixed with a strange cold cruelty and detachment. He did not see Harry Potter.

"How does it feel, Draco? Tell me. How does it feel to be powerless? How does it feel to lose control?"

The boy on the floor opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. His bulging eyes, staring unseeingly at the ceiling, pleaded in vain.

"This is how it feels."

For a moment more he watched his prey, handsome face indecipherable.

"Finite. Petrificus totalus."

For a moment Malfoy seemed suspended in time, frozen in a grotesque statue of suffering. Then suddenly, almost mechanically, his body shot ramrod straight. His legs snapped together and his arms locked to his sides, as if he had been mummified.

His tormentor crouched beside him and in a soft voice, began to speak.

"Now, Draco, here's what's going to happen. You are going to stay away from me, and you are going to stay away from my friends. You will never bother us again. You will tell no-one what has happened here today. If you do, I will know. I will know, and I will punish you. Believe me when I say that what I will do to you will make you wish you were at the Dark Lord's mercy."

There was no emotion whatsoever in his words. No sarcasm, no exaggeration. He was speaking the truth.

"Do you understand?"

A half-strangled gurgling sound came from the stiffened figure before him.

Harry smiled.

"Good."

He stood, ignoring the muffled pleas and cries of his victim, then turned and calmly walked away.

As he returned to Gryffindor tower, his mind raced. His heart pounded in time with his footsteps, surging with the certainty of power.

It was what he had always craved, what he had never been able to find: true and total control. He had sought it with magic and, failing, had turned to his blade, but neither had ever fully satisfied him. Only when flying could he truly escape and feel dominion over the things in his life that he had always been powerless to change: his past, his pain, his destiny.

Now, he was finally free. He was in control.

He had no fear of punishment; he knew Malfoy would not talk. It was not the threat of the unforgivable curse that would ensure his silence, it was the fear of what he had seen in Harry's eyes.

He had seen what Harry truly was: a man with nothing to lose.

As he rounded the final corner by the Fat Lady's portrait, a thought occurred to him and he stopped, considering it.

Now there was nothing left to hold him back. No matter what he did, no matter what was done to him, he couldn't feel pain. He couldn't suffer.  
With that kind of power, he could do whatever he wanted.

He smiled.

No pain, no penalty, no consequences.


	10. Revelio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's okay guys, it's okay. Dumbledore's here now. Everything is going to be okay.

"Come in."

Harry crossed the room, the very picture of nonchalance, and settled into a chair facing his Headmaster's desk.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Harry." The elderly wizard paused, calmly inspecting the boy before him over the thin rims of his half-moon spectacles. His lined face betrayed no emotion. "Professor McGonagall informs me that you have been duelling with Draco Malfoy."

Harry grinned and relaxed back into his chair. "I wouldn't exactly call it duelling, Professor. It was rather one sided."

Dumbledore raised a tufty silver eyebrow. "Do you mean to say that Mr Malfoy attacked you?"

Stretching his long legs out before him, Harry crossed them and smirked. "What I meant was that he didn't put up much of a fight."

The barest hint of surprise showed on Dumbledore's face, but he continued as if unfazed. "I see. You are aware, are you not, that duelling is against school rules?" He seemed to be testing him.

Harry chose to ignore the question. His voice was light as he spoke.

"Sir, may I ask, did Draco tell McGonagall we were duelling?"

"No, I believe Mr Malfoy refused to comment on how he came to be in a full body bind. Professor McGonagall and I drew our own conclusions."

Harry gave a wry smile. "And you came straight to me? How very astute, Professor."

Dumbledore frowned and leaned across his desk, studying Harry seriously. "Professor McGonagall also informs me that you were caught wandering in the Forbidden Forest, and I myself was present to witness your rather impressive stunt at the match last week."

For the first time, his eyes lit up. "You were at the match? What did you think? It was a great catch, wasn't it?"

"It was most impressive."

Somehow, Harry knew he wasn't being praised.

"Is there something wrong, sir?"

"That is precisely what I have been trying to ascertain." His eyes were kind, though his words were frank.

"I am aware that it's not out of character for you to bend the school rules on occasion, but lately you seem to be placing yourself in more than the usual amount of danger, Harry."

Harry's casual expression didn't change. "What are you saying, sir?"

Dumbledore sighed. "I am not saying anything, I am simply asking. Harry, is there anything that you would like to tell me?"

A flash of memory: the two of them, here, in this office, seated exactly as they were now. Both a little younger, both able to smile a little more easily.

"You've asked me that before, Professor."

He smiled, the bitter smile of twilight nostalgia. "Indeed I have. If I recall correctly, the last time I asked, you told me there was not."

Anticipating a blush, Harry ducked his head. None came.

"I ask you now to do me the courtesy of being honest."

For a moment it seemed as if he wouldn't answer. Staring down at his hands, he pondered a repeat of history. He could see his twelve year old self now, looking up at his Headmaster with the blatant, persuasive innocence of youth. 'Nothing, Professor.' It would be so easy.

This time, though, whether because of the passage of time or the urgency of the situation, when he opened his mouth, he found it was the truth he spoke.

"Something is happening to me."

He waited, unsure how to continue, half hoping for a reprieve.

"I don't actually know how to describe it. I guess I… Something, or someone, is… stealing my feelings." He hesitated under the intense gaze of the Headmaster, but when he made no move to interrupt, he continued, clarifying. "Not all of them. I mean, I can still feel happiness and excitement and I can, I don't know, laugh at a joke, but other things, the… bad things, are missing."

It felt surprisingly good to confess, to share his burden. Until now, he hadn't even realised he'd been carrying one.

"It's not just me. Ron's got it, too. And Hermione." he added, after a moment's thought. "I don't know if it's a spell or a potion or what, but none of us can feel any pain."

Dumbledore said nothing. He seemed to be absorbing the information.

"There's something else." He paused, unsure whether to continue.

"Go on, Harry." The soothing, familiar voice compelled him to confide. He succumbed, more easily than he would have thought possible. Somehow the barriers he'd built over months evaporated in Dumbledore's presence, just as they always had.

"It's getting worse. I'm feeling less and less every day. Ron says the same. I don't know what will happen if it keeps going."

He looked up at his Headmaster expectantly, almost devoutly, waiting for the words of wisdom he knew would banish any doubt.

For a long moment the elderly wizard stared at the boy before him. His mouth twitched and a burning curiosity filled his eyes. His pursed his lips, trying in vain to hold back the question he so desperately wanted to ask. Finally, almost reluctantly, he conceded.

"What is it like?"

Harry looked at him, confused for a second and puzzled by this rare display of impulse. "Sir?"

"I want to know. What does it feel like, Harry? To not feel pain, to be free from fear, regret, guilt… How does it feel?" As he spoke, there was a strange burning behind his usually gentle eyes, a kind of repressed need, and it seemed suddenly as if he were trying to penetrate Harry's thoughts.

The boy said nothing for a minute, as if he were not sure how to answer. He stared at the desk, absentmindedly playing with a letter opener left in front of him. It was shaped like a miniature sword. As he turned it between his fingers, the tiny rubies along its hilt glittered in the soft glow of the candlelight. Dumbledore watched him carefully, showing no sign of impatience or concern. He was almost frozen in expectance.

"You want to know what it's like…" He sounded as if he were speaking from far away, his eyes distant, face devoid of emotion.

Then, suddenly, he was back, as if a switch had been flipped and Harry had returned to the room. He raised his eyes to bore into Dumbledore's with fierce intensity, glowing green to clouded blue. Their gazes locked, Harry began to speak, confiding in his mentor. It felt as natural as it had when he was eleven. He could trust him to understand, to support him. He knew as he had always known - with Dumbledore, he was safe.

"It's like… I don't know… You know when you're with a group of people, but you know there's someone missing? You keep turning to look for them, half expecting them to be standing in the corner, or… hiding, just out of sight. You keep watching the door, waiting for them to walk through it. And everyone in the room's somehow aware that they're not there – their absence is almost tangible. That's kind of what it's like.

"I know I should be in pain, I expect the pain to come, but I never actually hurt. I know I should be afraid, but I never actually feel fear. All I feel is the absence of emotion. It's like a part of me's not functioning, like a missing limb you keep trying to move. I feel… empty. I feel stunted. It's strange and it's wrong, but somehow it also feels… good. I feel good. I feel… powerful."

When Dumbledore said nothing, he continued, pace building, intensity increasing. Faster and faster he spoke as the thoughts and feelings he had bottled up came rushing out.

"I don't know how this happened, but I'm glad it did. Can you imagine the possibilities? Not just for me, but for everyone? I can win every Quidditch game, I can experiment with dangerous potions, I can beat anyone I fight. I can do anything. I'm untouchable. Nothing can harm me now – not even Voldemort. Without pain, I'm free. This isn't a curse – it's a gift, and I intend to use it! We can use it – together."

Harry closed his eyes, his face exultant. At some point during his speech, Dumbledore's feelings of intense curiosity had morphed into shock and horror. When Harry's eyes closed, he at last allowed his grief to show on his face. Whatever answer he had been expecting, it wasn't this. Now he leaned forward, reaching for the boy hesitantly, as if he were half afraid to touch him.

"Harry, you have to understand – this is no gift."

Harry's eyes snapped open. His joyous expression faltered, then stabilised.

"It would take a very powerful wizard to cast a spell like this. It would take strong, dark magic. Don't you see what this means? Someone out there has power and is using it to control you, to manipulate your feelings. Someone is trying to destroy you."

The urgency with which he spoke was not lost on Harry, but he was surprised to hear his Headmaster echoing Ron's words. Maybe Dumbledore just didn't understand yet. Maybe he hadn't explained it properly. He tried again, deliberately patient.

"You're right, Professor. This is powerful magic. I thought, at first, that it was meant to do me harm, but now? Honestly? It doesn't matter. The person who did this to me, whatever their intentions, did me a favour. This is the best thing that's ever happened to me! For the first time in my life, I'm truly happy. I have never slept as well as I have over the past few weeks. Don't you get it? I'm free! Free from the pain and the guilt, free from the regret and the loneliness and the constant nightmares. I don't care anymore how it happened, or why. I don't care if I never feel pain again. I'm just grateful I've been saved."

Dumbledore's eyes were burning once again, some indefinable emotion flaming in contrast with the cloudy powder blue irises. At last came the sermon Harry had been waiting for, but it was not what he had hoped.

"This is not salvation."

The words hung in the air, powerful and deep, resonating in the silence of the panelled room. Harry blinked, too stunned to speak.

"To be free from pain is not the blessing you believe. Pain is what makes us human. It's how we feel empathy, how we relate to one another. Overcoming it gives us strength. Without pain, we could not comprehend joy.

"The universe balances the good with bad – we need both to survive. Without pain and fear, we couldn't feel happiness. Without darkness, there can be no light. I am afraid, Harry, that this power might consume you. It could make you reckless with your life and with others' and destroy your humanity. Your humanity, Harry, is what separates you from the Dark Lord. It is your most powerful weapon in this war. We must reverse this before it is too late. We must find a way to bring back your pain, or I fear you will soon be lost to us."

There was a pause, a silence heavier than any he had felt, and then -

"NO!"

Dumbledore jolted back in surprise as the tall, lean boy before him stood with sudden violence. He leant threateningly over the desk towards his teacher. His face was unmoved, his voice clear and calm. There was no trace of anger, no threat in the loud demand. Somehow this frightened Dumbledore more than if he had been faced with rage.

"No?" he asked, his voice soft and gentle in response to Harry's absurdly dispassionate tone.

"I will not let you take this away from me. I will not let you give me back… The Pain." He said the words as if they were capitalised.

"I have suffered enough for a lifetime. I have suffered enough for several. You cannot argue with me - no-one should have had to feel what I've felt, to go through what I have been though – let alone a child. And I'm still a child, Professor - in age, at least. Now I've been given a second chance – I've been given a reprieve. I'm telling you I'm finally happy and you want to reverse it? How could you ask that of me?"

Now, finally, anger was building in his voice. His face flickered between peace and violent rage as he struggled to hold on to his emotions. It was like trying to hold on to wind. Nonetheless, the anger that fuelled him was strong and deep, repressed for years in midnight tears and shallow smiles. With a strength born of great patience, it managed somehow to hold it's own against the spell, dominating his face as Dumbledore watched, powerless to intervene, unable to help the boy he loved as dearly as a son.

"Harry, I –"

"No. I will not do it. Do you want me to suffer? That's it, isn't it? That's what you really want. I've been thinking about it a lot lately and I've come to realise something that I should have known a long time ago. You're the one to blame. You are the reason for all my pain."

He knew suddenly as he spoke the words that they were true. This was what he had been feeling, deep inside, for longer than even he had known. It had been a poison simmering quietly in his heart since the day he had learned the truth of his origins. His words gained momentum with freedom and as he spoke, his fervour and anger grew.

"My parents would never have died if you hadn't convinced them to change their secret keeper. You were the one who gave me to the Dursleys and left me alone to be abused and neglected for eleven years. You could have spared me then, but you didn't. You weren't there when Quirrell tried to take the stone, or when Tom took Ginny into the Chamber. You weren't there to protect Sirius, or to save Cedric. You left it all to me, to a little kid. I was eleven, Professor, and you left me to face it all alone. You left me to face Voldemort alone."

Dumbledore's face was frozen, shocked into default neutrality. Harry's words seemed like arrows against his armour, unable to penetrate his shield. Nonetheless, he kept going. It was too late to turn back, even if he had wanted to. With self-righteousness born of vindication and the certainty of impunity, he fired his final volley.

"I was blind, before. I thought you were my mentor – my saviour. I thought because you took me out of Godric's Hollow, because you sent Hagrid to take me away from Privet Drive, because you saved me at the ministry, that you were helping me, protecting me.

"But now I see the truth. You don't care for me – you never have. All you care about is your cause – your perfect war. Well, I am not your soldier, Dumbledore, and I am not your pawn. I will not let you control me any more. You cannot "save me", you cannot "guard me" – you cannot hurt me any more."

With that, he turned and stormed towards the stone staircase. As he reached it, he turned back and Dumbledore could see that the rage was gone, replaced with the familiar, frightening façade of contentment.

"Don't try to stop me, Professor. You may be powerful, but remember: a man who can feel no pain has nothing to lose."

He smiled, entirely at ease, then walked briskly down the stone steps and out through the gargoyle entrance, leaving the older man with much to consider and with much to weigh down his heart. As he closed his eyes and leant back in his throne-like chair, a small silver tear slipped down his face. For the first time in a long time, Professor Dumbledore wept.


	11. Evanesco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains sexual assault.

It was after midnight by the time the library closed; long past the curfew, but her position as prefect allowed her certain privileges, one of which was late nights in the library. 

As she walked the corridors back to the dormitory, she ignored her reflection as it flashed in the antique windows. Small flaws in the glass warped the image, but there was no mistaking the changes that the weeks had wrought. 

Her brown eyes were nearly black now, darkened by the constant presence of suffocating pain. Her hair, once thick and bushy, lay lank against her skull. Sharp cheekbones cut harsh lines across her gaunt face and pale, thin lips lay flat, without the barest hint of humour. 

It was as though the laughter, the light, the life inside of her had died. She was no longer Hermione. She was a vessel, made to bear the pain of others. By no means cold, by no means empty; she was filled with a constant, relentless turbulence of suffering. 

That was the only thing that helped her to carry on: the thought that, by living, she was able to take away her friends’ pain. If this transformation was the price of saving them from suffering, then she would pay it willingly. 

The pain had become a familiar friend, a constant companion through the restless nights and meaningless daylight hours. It removed her from the world, isolating her from her classes, teachers and friends and muting her own emotional responses. Lost in the haze of pain, she felt drained and beleaguered, but blessedly detached. 

She entered the common room, once again finding it empty. She was struck suddenly by the memory of the night weeks before when she had made her horrifying, life-changing discovery in this same, empty room. She stood motionless, staring at the space where Harry had appeared from beneath his cloak. 

A sudden rush of nerves hit her, then, 

“Hermione.” 

The sudden voice in the darkness made her jump. For one panicked moment she imagined she was reliving that night, that it was Harry speaking from the shadows. She quailed at the thought of his pale, lined arm looming in the moonlight, as it did each night in her dreams. 

As the voice came again, she recognised it. “Sorry, it’s just me.” 

She struggled to calm her racing heart. Weeks of practice reining in her emotions lent her strength and she felt her breathing become more even. The nerves she had felt, which she now recognised as his, flared up once more. “Ron, what are you doing here?” 

“Waiting for you. I figured you had to come back sooner or later.” 

Annoyed at allowing herself to be scared, she frowned. “Well, I’m here now and I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” She turned away deliberately, heading in the direction of the girls’ dormitory. 

“’Mione, wait a sec.” 

She sighed, exasperated and exhausted. “What is it?” 

He stood and made his way over to her, his face betraying nothing as she felt his frenzied nerves respond. 

“Where’ve you been?” 

Her response was terse. Fearful of interrogation and aware of some new feeling rising up within her, she wanted the conversation to be over. “Library.” 

“You’re always in the library, these days. I feel like we never get to see you any more.” She couldn’t name the feeling, but it made her skin crawl and her stomach recoil. It felt tainted and guttural. 

“I’ve been busy, researching the curse, doing homework.” 

“Which you didn’t finish…” His gaze was steady, but she couldn’t help but take a step back from him as she felt the new sensation intensify. He took another step towards her and her stomach rolled. 

“I fell asleep. Look, Ron, I’m really tired. I just want to go to bed.” 

“We can do that.” 

She froze, stunned as she absorbed his full meaning. “Did you really just say that?” 

He smiled, completely cocksure. “I did, and I meant it. Surely you know how I feel about you.” 

Suddenly she had a name for the new emotion. Her own disgust struck her hard. “Actually, no, and I’m not sure I want to. We’re friends, Ron. That’s it.” 

“Come on, ‘Mione. We are friends, I just thought maybe we could be more, too…” He smiled, trying to be charming, obviously totally unaffected by her dismay. “Come on, I know you’ve always had a thing for me. We can have some fun.” 

“Fun? Ron – this isn’t fun. This is serious. I don’t “have a thing for you”, and I want you to stop. I’m leaving.” 

She turned once more toward the staircase just as his anger and frustration surged. She felt rather than saw him cast the curse. 

“Petrificus totalus!” 

Her arms hit her sides as she hit the floor, legs locked together. Desperate, she tried to move, to scream, but she was trapped, motionless in her own body. 

She cried out inwardly and tried to shrink away as he approached, but she could do no more than stare wildly at him, eyes rolling in terror. He leant over her and cupped her frozen face in his hands, brushing up against her body as he did so. 

“Come on, ‘Mione. Let’s have some fun.” His whisper was hoarse, his breath warm against her cheek, and she could feel vomit rising in her throat as her feelings unwillingly mirrored his. 

Suddenly he was kissing her, warm, wet lips mashed against her own stony mouth. His breathing grew heavier and heavier, until finally he pulled away, gasping. 

“Wow, not bad, Hermione, but I bet this is more fun with two. How about I let you join in?” He sat up, still kneeling over her, and pulled out his wand. “Finite incantatem.” 

She was up like a bolt, attacking then recoiling as she felt the impact of the knee she’d aimed at his groin. He chuckled as she fell back, then offered her a hand up. 

“Don’t touch me!” 

She scrambled to her feet and backed away, horrified. Her own hands as she flexed them shook violently, and she spoke on a reflex, words flowing straight from heart to mouth without a moment’s pause for the mind to intervene. 

“How dare you? What gives you the right – what made you think…?” The questions came thick and fast and she forced herself to pause, trying to collect herself. She drew a long, shuddering breath. 

He stared straight into her eyes and she shuddered to see him unmoved. “Whatever you say, I know you’ll be thinking about that kiss tonight. I’ll be thinking about it too.” 

She slapped him so hard she felt her hand tingle with the shock of the blow, but he just smiled meaningfully. 

“G’night, ‘Mione.” She didn’t, couldn’t move as he turned and climbed the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. For long minutes afterwards, she stood, shaking, in the middle of the room. 

Suddenly, she drew her wand and muttered, “Muffliato.” The sound of the wind outside was dampened as she let out a long, deliberate, blood-curdling scream, venting her anger, her disgust and her pain in the silence of the charm. Spent, she drew a deep, shaky breath and released the spell. 

Slowly, she made her way to the corner of the room and lowered herself to the floor. Once there, she drew a tight circle around herself with her wand. 

“Cave inimicum. Salvio hexia. Protego totalum.” 

She wrapped her arms around her knees, locking them tightly to her chest and stared unseeing across the common room, helplessly, endlessly reliving that kiss. 

 

“Albus, there’s something seriously wrong with Hermione Granger.” 

Dumbledore looked up at his old friend with deliberate, weary eyes as the soft sounds of the various instruments which filled his office chimed their unique music. 

“Let me guess, Minerva. She’s constantly happy? She can feel no pain? She’s reckless and impossible to upset?” 

Sharp brows snapped together in confusion. 

“What? No. Quite the opposite, in fact. She’s morbidly depressed. She’s been neglecting her classwork and she seems… I’m not sure how to describe it.   
It’s quite frightening, actually. She’s changed. I don’t think she’s been eating or even sleeping much at all. She’s stopped responding in class and I never see her with her friends… It’s as if she just doesn’t care any more. I’m scared, Albus. I’m worried that she’s going to harm herself and I don’t know what I can do to prevent it.” She rent her hands as she spoke, betraying her fears. 

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed. “She is in pain?” he confirmed. 

“A great deal, I’d imagine.” Minerva’s face showed concern as she twisted her hands nervously before her. “I’m so sorry, Albus. It’s my job to watch over them – I should have seen this earlier. I should have done something to stop it. It was just so sudden, and I wasn’t expecting...” 

Her voice trailed off, then her sharp eyes narrowed suddenly as anger replaced guilt. 

“Who could have done this to her? If I could get my hands on them…” 

Wrinkled eyes widened in comprehension and wizened shoulders sagged beneath the weight of thick silk robes. 

“I think you’ll find, Minerva, that there is no-one for you to exact punishment upon.” 

She frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“I believe, my dear, that Miss Granger has done this to herself.” 

Confusion etched a frown across her brow. “To herself?” she asked in disbelief. “But… I don’t understand. Why would anyone do that?” 

A sad smile spread across his face as he realised that he knew the answer. 

“For love, Minerva. Isn’t it always for love?”


	12. Lumos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains torture. 
> 
> Here we go, further and further down that road to hell which Hermione has so diligently paved.

“Harry, please. I need your help.” 

Her soft voice echoed pathetically in the vaulted classroom, and she wished, not for the first time, that they could have done this somewhere else. She longed for the warm familiarity of the Common Room, for the safety of the dorms. 

But she’d needed privacy - privacy above all else - so they had come here, to this most neglected of required rooms. It was disturbingly dusty and eerily cobwebbed and she thought she could see bloodstains on one of the desks, but privacy was their priority, and this place was certainly private. 

“What is it, Hermione?” He asked the question as though she had a problem with her homework, as if she’d ever had a problem with her homework. How she wished it were something so mundane! 

She took a deep breath, steeled herself and began. 

“It’s Ron… Harry, he – he tried to…” She broke off, unable to finish. 

“It’s ok, Hermione,” he interjected, clear voice distinct against her wavering tones. “I know all about it.” 

“You know?” She was startled but pleased, relieved of the burden of reliving the encounter. 

“He told me.” 

Her heart sank. “What exactly did he tell you?” 

Instead of answering, he sauntered over to the bloody desk and leant against it casually. She cringed, but he didn’t even seem to see the stains. 

“He said that you guys had a fight. He said you tried to kiss him.” 

She couldn’t help it. The cry was out before she could stop herself. Harry just blinked, unfazed. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that word before.” 

“He said that?” Her voice was only slightly hysterical, but it sounded more than manic in contrast to her friend’s soft speech. “Surely you don’t believe him?” 

“Of course I don’t.” 

“…because that’s not – Wait, what?” 

“I don’t believe him, Hermione.” He spoke patiently, as if to a small child. Her response did not discourage the illusion. 

“You don’t?” 

“No. Ron has many talents, but lying is not one of them.” 

She closed her eyes and gave a deep sigh of relief, then frowned as she heard her friend’s voice change. There was a quality there - a tenderness she hadn’t heard before. 

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” 

She looked up at him in confusion and met dark, intense eyes. She flinched, not expecting it. Since she hadn’t felt anything, she’d assumed he hadn’t either. She had forgotten that some emotions remained exclusively his. 

He was standing, and the bottle-green eyes were filled with something indefinable – not quite love, not quite passion. Both were expressions she had imagined a hundred times and dreamt a thousand more. This was different. This was something she had seen before, but not in a very long time. 

It was guardianship – that essential Harry quality, the unwavering drive to protect the people in his life, whatever the cost. It was the fierce face of the Gryffindor lion, staring defiantly out through his own. 

For a moment she smiled to see it, then rapidly returned to the familiar frown, casting her eyes to the floor once more. No longer accustomed to joy, the expression had felt uncomfortable on her face. 

“No.” She spoke softly. “He didn’t hurt me.” 

“Good.” The fierce fervour faded, giving way once more to the detached Harry. She was sorry to see it go. 

He leaned back once more against the desk. 

“You know, Ron’d never want to scare you. He wouldn’t have done this at all if it weren’t for that curse.” 

She breathed in sharply. “Curse?” 

“Curse, spell, whatever. This thing we’ve got. It’s made us more… impulsive. It’s harder to think through consequences.” He paused, musing. “How’s the research? You haven’t found out what it is yet, have you?” 

She swallowed, hard. Finally, here it was, the question she’d been dreading, and asked so casually! Her breath caught in her throat. 

Keep it simple, she told herself. Don’t complicate things. 

“No. Not yet.” 

She was deeply grateful for the disinterestedness granted by her spell. Without it, she knew, he would never have believed her. As it was, he grimaced for a millisecond, sending a pang of annoyance her way, and then relaxed. 

“Ok, well, let me know when you do. I suppose it doesn’t really matter much anymore, but I’d still be interested.” 

About to change the topic, she paused, her curiosity piqued. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” 

He stretched his legs, as though only half paying attention. “Well, it’s a little late to fix things now. I mean, you’ve seen how far gone Ron is, and I’m feeling less and less every day. You’ve got to be the same, right?” 

She hesitated, processing this news and in that moment, sealed her fate. 

“’Mione?” 

“Yeah, same.” 

He peered at her, finally paying attention. “Hermione?” 

“What?” She was too defensive, too quick to answer. She knew it the moment she spoke. 

He frowned, putting things together at last. As he spoke, his voice grew surer. 

“You… you were scared, when we first arrived, then you were angry. I didn’t think about it, but… this thing that’s happening to us, you don’t have it, do you?” 

She couldn’t look at him. “Of course I do –”

He wasn’t listening. He already knew what her answer would be and it was not the one he wanted to hear. He spoke as if to himself. 

“Why would you lie?” 

“I’m not lying, I –” 

“Dammit, Hermione! Tell me the truth!” 

His anger was sudden and violent. It was an outburst, a flare from a fading fire. 

He slammed his fist into the table and she hissed, flinching at the sudden stab of pain. She clenched her fingers, as though trying to grasp the sensation shooting up her arm. 

He froze. With growing dread, she watched his shoulders rise as he inhaled slowly. Her heart sank with them. He knew. She knew, he knew. 

His face when he turned to her was blank with sudden comprehension. 

“Did you just feel that?” 

She looked away quickly. 

“No.” 

“You did, didn’t you?” Something in her eyes made him add, “Don’t lie to me, Hermione.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her face was set in stubborn contradiction, but he paid no attention, frowning, lost in thought. 

“Then, all this time…” his voice trailed off. 

Her own voice when she spoke was several octaves higher than usual, driven up by strain. 

“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Her heart drummed rapidly as the panic began to set in. It was her own. 

He couldn’t know, he wasn’t supposed to find out. Not like this… not… not ever. 

Panic rose, choking her. Realising she was about to hyperventilate, she gave up on arguing with him and searched for an escape. She started toward the door, but it slammed and bolted itself before she could reach it, stopping her in her tracks. She spun to face Harry, who stood with his wand out, watching her calmly. 

“And I told you, Hermione: don’t lie to me.” There was a dangerous edge to his genial tone. 

“Let me out,” she demanded frantically, her already rapid heart rate rising. 

“Tell me the truth.” 

“Harry, this isn’t funny. Let me out now.” She drew in a deep, gasping breath. 

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, unmoved. “It’s very simple. I’ll let you out as soon as you tell me what you’ve done to me.” 

“I haven’t done anything!” She was almost shrieking now. 

The corner of his mouth twisted in disbelief and he sighed. 

“Then I guess we’re going to have to do this the hard way.” 

He raised his wand and she took an involuntary step backwards, eyes wide with fear, but his hand continued upwards to rest the tip of the wand against his temple. 

Her sudden cry of “No!” drowned out the spell he spoke, but it was abruptly severed as she crumpled to the ground, gaze blank and dark, limp limbs twitching. 

He strolled over to her slowly, pursing his lips as he calmly surveyed her frail form. 

“You really should have told me the truth, ‘Mione. It would have been so much easier.” 

Her lips moved wordlessly, mouthing sounds he couldn’t make out. 

“What was that? I can’t quite hear you.” 

Even through her agony, she could hear the black hint of humour in his voice. Now his unwavering calm – the calm she had worked so hard to create and protect - frightened her. It was worse somehow than Ron’s had been. It was colder and less human. It was crueler. 

“Now,” he said, “I’m going to ask you some questions about this spell of yours, and I want you to be a good girl and answer honestly, alright?” 

Her lips moved again, and once more the words were inaudible. Annoyed, he flicked his wand at her carelessly. “Sonorus.” 

“Harry, please, don’t do this…” It was still barely a whimper. 

He rolled his eyes, braced himself against a desk and held his wand to his thigh. 

“Diffindo.” 

She screamed now, and the sound was amplified by the spell, so that her cries of pain echoed through the classroom. 

“First question.” Her sobs seemed to come from all around him. “What exactly did you do?” 

“I...” She couldn’t speak, overwhelmed by pain. Exasperated, he pointed to his thigh once more. She cringed, but relaxed when she heard him say, “Episkey.” 

She breathed a deep, shaking sigh of relief as she felt his bones knit together. 

“Tell me, Hermione.” His wand did not move from his leg. 

“I made a spell.” The words were quavering, but clear. 

“What spell?” 

“A spell to, to take away pain.” 

His eyes narrowed. “Why?” 

She hesitated. 

“Diff-” 

“No - wait! ” Her agonised cry stopped him. “Wait…” 

She drew a ragged breath. Bracing herself on the ground with both hands, she looked him in the eyes. 

“I did it for you.” 

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, for me?” 

“I… saw your arm.” Her shoulders crumpled in defeat as she made the confession she had sworn she never would. “I saw it all. I know, Harry.” 

She felt horror rise in her chest. “You know?” 

She nodded mutely, dropping her gaze to the flagstones as she tried to smother his panicked pain. 

He paused, free from emotional effect but still struggling to absorb the information. “How long have you known?” 

She said nothing, fighting to keep her face calm as anger replaced his dread. 

“How long, Hermione?” His wand twitched in his hand. 

“A while.” Her reply was clipped. 

When he said nothing, she went on, desperate and defiant. “That’s why I did this. I couldn’t bear to see you in pain.”

“So you decided to take it away from me?” 

The accusation in his words checked her anger. “Yes.” She paused. “I was trying to save you.” 

He stopped, considering this. For a long moment, neither of them moved, and the silence was broken only by her ragged, dragging breaths. 

His dull pain thrummed through her, constant and unenlightening. She couldn’t take it. She had to know what he was thinking. 

“Harry?” There was desperation there, and wild hope. 

Nothing. Nothing but an answering spike in her chest at his name. She moved a wavering inch toward him. 

“Please… Say something.” 

“What do you want me to say?” She could tell by the blank glaze of his vacant eyes that he wasn’t really there with her, wasn’t listening. 

“Anything.” 

Nothing. 

She racked her addled brain. “Tell me… Tell me how this started. When did you first… do that to yourself? How did you hide it? Did you ever tell anyone? I… there are so many things I don’t know. I just want to understand.” 

She had thought, perhaps, he wouldn’t answer, but with slow deliberation he began to speak, his voice a steady monotone, devoid of emotion, of expression. He stared fixedly at a crack in the flagstones, as though reading lines written in the darkness there. 

“I don’t remember exactly when it started. One day I wasn’t, then the next, I… It seemed like it came out of nowhere. But, of course, it didn’t. It came from everywhere, out of everything. Every hidden memory, every stored regret. It was penance for every sin and balm for every bruise. And once I began, I couldn’t bring myself to stop. I didn’t even want to stop, I just wanted to hide it, so no one could interfere. 

“I thought I could manage. I thought I could handle it. Binge; purge. Hurt; cut. I found a thousand small ways to cope, each one more destructive than the last.  
All the while, a part of me knew that it couldn’t last forever, because each purge was less complete, and each cut brought less relief. I knew, deep down, that one day, things would finally come to a head and I would have to face the darkness that I was trying so hard to keep at bay. But the longer I could put it off, the better. Whatever it took. 

“Then there was this… this… miracle. I woke up one morning and just like that, the pain was gone.” 

Her poor, battered heart swelled to hear his words. Something deep within her sighed and the faint traces of a smile haunted her sallow face. 

“I didn’t know then how it had happened, or why, but I was so grateful that it did. I learned how to live, how to be free, and I learned what it means to have true power.” 

“Power?” She frowned. “I don’t… What do you mean?” 

“I’m powerful now, Hermione. More than you could possibly imagine. This… spell, or whatever it is that you’ve done, it’s made me see all the things that were holding me back. All the things that were hurting me and stopping me from really living.” 

“What things?” 

“Guilt. Regret. Anger. Frustration. Empathy. All the things that were tying me to my past and to people around me. They were dragging me down, burdening me and suffocating me.” 

He paused, reflecting. His tone now was light, as if he discussed the weather. 

“I don’t feel them now.” 

She took advantage of the momentary silence to ask the question that had been plaguing her for weeks. 

“What exactly do you feel?” Her eyes glowed. In the firelight, they were frenzied. 

He didn’t answer straight away, but seemed to give her question serious thought. 

“At first, I was… happy. I felt incredibly content. All I knew was that my pain was gone and I could sleep through the night without dreaming. I felt hopeful. I learned how to smile again. 

“Then, gradually, even those emotions began to fade, and I found I needed… I needed more. I needed the thrill of Quidditch, I craved the pain of the blade. But the more I sought emotion, the less I felt it. The spell began to work more powerfully, draining everything I felt, until eventually, there was nothing left for it to take. No pain, no joy, no conscience. Just… nothing.” 

He looked at her, as if only just remembering she was there. 

“Do you want to know how it feels to be free from emotion?” 

She nodded mutely, attention rapt. 

He closed his eyes, living the sensation, and whispered, “It feels amazing.” 

She smiled radiantly, happy for the first time in months, pain and fear forgotten. Amazing, he had said. He felt amazing. Nothing else he had said mattered. He was free, and she was the one who had saved him. She had not suffered in vain. 

Harry didn’t see her smile, didn’t register her vainglorious triumph. He was lost inside himself. 

“I know now that Dumbledore was wrong. Everything he ever told me was a lie. Our emotions do not give us strength. They are a weakness, a disability. Humanity is vulnerability.” 

“I can’t believe it…” She spoke the words aloud, revelling in the revelation, oblivious to his words of ambition. 

“I can be so much more now…” 

“I did it…” 

“More than I ever dreamed…” 

“I really did it…” 

“I can be powerful.” 

“I saved you.” 

He looked at her sharply, torn from his reverie by her words. 

“What did you say?” 

She stopped, surprised by the sudden change of rhythm. She hadn’t realised he’d been listening. “Nothing… I just… I’m glad I could help you. That’s all I ever wanted.” 

He stared at her, expression inscrutable, and a hint of his anger welled up inside of her. 

“Don’t try to pretend you did this for me. We both know that’s not true.” 

“What?” There was his anger, betrayal following fast in its footsteps. The shock of his words was amplified through her as, helpless to stem the flood of emotions, she felt what he could not. 

“You did this for you. You did it to salve your conscience, to put yourself back on the moral high ground. You did it to nurture your tragic little schoolgirl crush.” 

She gasped, speechless, hurt. 

“Well, congratulations. You’ve done what you set out to do – I don’t hurt any more. I don’t feel; I don’t cry. I have no reason to cut. You’ve erased my inconvenient pain and restored the ideal of your perfect Harry Potter. Your guilt is gone.” 

She frowned, soft eyes panicked at this sudden turn of events, struggling to come to grips with his rage. “I… I don’t…” 

“Oh look – Granger’s lost for words. I suppose there’s a first time for everything.” 

She closed her eyes, focused, and spoke. “I don’t understand. You said… you said you felt amazing.” 

“That’s right, “amazing”. But this is what you wanted, not what I needed. You could have helped me, talked to me, saved me. Instead, you’ve changed me.” 

“But I have saved you!” 

“No, Hermione. That’s exactly my point. You didn’t save anyone. Harry Potter is dead.” 

She gasped again, horrified, and he smiled. 

“You couldn’t save him. You didn’t even try. This – what I am now, it’s different. I’m not even sure it’s human. It’s powerful and free and… amazing.” 

“But, what I did, it didn’t –” 

“Yes, it did. You did this to me. You made me this way. I am grateful to you, for freeing me from who I was, but don’t try to fool yourself into thinking that you’re some kind of martyr. You did this for you.” 

She was shaking her head now, mouth moving wordlessly as she backed away. Her back hit the wood panelling of the door and she fumbled behind her for the handle, silently hoping he would let her leave. 

“That’s right, go. I wouldn’t want to hear it, if I were you. I wouldn’t want to know I was responsible for this.” His arm swept across his unchanging face, underscoring his level words. 

She found the handle and, with desperate force, yanked open the door. She fell out into the corridor, feeling his empty eyes following her as she scrambled to her feet and fled. 

When her frantic footfalls had finally faded from earshot, he wandered over to the rickety old desk in the corner. He seemed to stare through it as his fingers slowly traced the bloodstains, his breathing soft and even. 

In the silence he heard the distant call to cut, a murmur so faint a simple smile was all it took to quash it. 

The smile widened as he turned away from the desk and spoke to the empty room. 

“Amazing.”


	13. Liberacorpus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now reach the point where you, my lovely readers, must make a decision. 
> 
> I’d like to take this opportunity to remind everyone of the warning I gave in the first chapter: this is not a happy story. 
> 
> Having said that, I am aware that many of us are living actual unhappy stories, or are in the middle of the adversities of life which make the prospect of a real happy ending seem unlikely (even if one is waiting just around the corner). In such times, it can be important to take small breaks from reality, to suspend disbelief and provide a fictional get out of jail free card. 
> 
> So, if you're not feeling up for tragedy and would like everything to end well for Harry, Ron and Hermione, please read the following lengthy paragraph, then close the webpage and go about your business. 
> 
> If, however, you are brave enough to persist, knowing that even magic cannot always make things right, skip the following alternate ending and continue on to the real chapter thirteen, which is listed in this story as chapter fourteen ("Nox"). It is followed by the final chapter, "Obliviate". 
> 
> Just make sure you do something life-affirming after you finish reading it.

Hermione rushed back to the girls’ dormitory, lost in her own tormented thoughts. Shoving blindly through the portrait hole, she slammed full-pelt into a solid pillar of flesh and robes. 

“Sorry,” she muttered absent-mindedly, not even pausing to see who it was she had hit. She managed a few more steps before the voice which responded made her pause. 

“Miss Granger, might I have a word?” She turned slowly, unwilling to face her headmaster. Weeks of striving to evade his notice had evidently been wasted. When she didn’t move, he spoke again. “Look at me, please, Hermione.” 

Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to meet his, and saw in their soft blue depths both frightening knowledge and the comfort of compassion. She swallowed deeply. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me to my office?” 

Throughout the walk, she kept her eyes on the stone flags of the corridor floors, struggling to come to terms with the fact that Dumbledore, of all people, knew what she had done. By the time she stood before his desk, she had decided. She would confide in her headmaster. Surely he, of all people, would understand. Surely he would forgive her. 

He sat patiently, asking no questions, waiting for her to begin as though they had all the time in the world. The story came out in a rush, told in bits and pieces, with tears and defiance. As she came to her final, hopeless conclusion, she at long last risked a glance at her headmaster’s ancient face, but was disappointed. It betrayed no emotion. 

“So you see, sir, I’ve made a terrible mistake. I was trying to help them, but instead, I made everything worse. I don’t know what to do. How can I fix it? How can I put things back the way they were?” 

For a long moment he remained silent. When he finally spoke, it was in heavy, somber tones. 

“You must understand, Miss Granger, that what you have done is very serious. You have broken wizarding law, you have violated your friends’ trust and you may well have caused great harm to come to them. This cannot pass without consequences.” She nodded. She had known as she confessed that she would have to answer for her actions. 

“Having said that, I am sure you will be pleased to hear that all is not lost. As soon as I recognised what you had done to Mr Potter and Mr Weasley, I prepared a counter-spell, which I will administer to them this evening. The spell should also remove the effects of their emotions upon you.” Her eyes shone suddenly with hope, as they had not done in many weeks. 

“Be warned, that though physically they will be as they were before you cast your spell, emotionally, this ordeal will have had a significant impact upon them. Overcoming that is just one of the many challenges which you will face in the days to come. It will not be easy, but I believe that with time and effort we can restore them to their former selves.” 

Her tentative smile turned into a full-fledged grin as she looked up at the wizard who had saved her. He had done it with so little ceremony and so little judgment, and for that she was so grateful. “Thank you, sir. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I hope you believe me when I say that I only wanted to help them.” 

“I do indeed believe that your intentions were pure, but remember, some of the most dangerous and dreadful acts in history were committed by those who believed that they were doing good. Love is the desire to protect others from pain; not a guarantee that we will not hurt them. Now, I think it is time for you to return to your dormitory. You should find that you are able to sleep tonight, once I have administered the counter-spell. I strongly recommend that you consider the events of the past few weeks with a heavy heart and a mind for the future.” 

She nodded dizzily, still too swamped with the miracle of her rescue to take in much of what he was saying. “Thank you, sir.” 

As she traipsed down the steps of the gargoyle passageway, her heart felt light. It was a foreign feeling, but she relished it. She had been saved by the mercy of her headmaster, given a second chance to repair her relationships with Harry and Ron and to make penance for her sins. For the first time, she allowed herself to hope – maybe now, with a little guidance and much forgiveness, everything really would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How lovely! Everything was miraculously and conveniently resolved. Wasn’t that nice?


	14. Nox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains suicidal themes. 
> 
> Oh, so you've chosen to persevere? Brave souls! 
> 
> (Or perhaps just foolhardy?)

Amazing. 

He’d said it felt amazing. 

He had said he was free from pain and free from vulnerability. Whatever else there was, whatever else he’d said, she could hold on to that. Her hands clenched into fists by her sides as she picked her way carefully down the crowded staircase, as though mirroring her thoughts. 

Amazing. 

The rest - the cruelty and those awful, awful words – well, that wasn’t really him. That wasn’t her Harry, blaming and accusing. Her friend, her Harry, loved her. He would never say such things.

Not her Harry. 

She stopped abruptly on the steps and closed her eyes, shutting out the bustle of students roaming the corridors and the glare of the fading afternoon sun. She could see him in the darkness of her mind, smiling and carefree, moving toward her, unblemished arms outstretched. 

Her Harry. 

Unthinking, she took a step forward, her foot glancing off the edge of the lower stair. For one dizzying moment she felt herself suspended, then toppled forward with sudden speed. She grabbed hold of the thick stone railing just in time to save herself from falling and clung there, panting and struggling to collect herself. The students passing by barely gave her a glance, pausing only to step around her and continue down the stairs. She took a deep, unsteady breath. What was she thinking? She had forgotten where she was. She had forgotten who she was: his proxy, the vessel for his pain. Nothing more. Not a friend, not a lover and certainly not beloved. 

He would never really be her Harry. She knew that now. Too much had come between them over the past few weeks. His past, his pain and his darkest fears were burned into her core. She had lived his nightmares and one by one they had built a barrier between them that she knew she could never overcome. 

Yet somehow, now, after everything she had done, she found she didn’t need him to be hers. Years of heartwracked longing had been diminished by weeks of suffering and made shallow by her sacrifice. Living with him would be a luxury; living for him – that was love. 

She knew, despite his words, that he loved her, too. Not in the way she wanted, but nonetheless, it was love. She had seen it in his eyes in that moment of fierce protection. That was the Harry she knew, not this brutal, empty creature who hurt her with his words and wielded his wand so casually and so cruelly. 

Perhaps she had imagined it? After all, her mind had not been… clear, of late. Perhaps this Harry was just another nightmare and she would wake again soon, sweating and shaking in the girls dormitories, clinging to the enveloping crimson curtains of her bed. 

And what if she didn’t? What did it matter, anyway, if he had said those things? So what if he had hurt her? He’d been hurting her for weeks without knowing. 

That was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? To hurt, so he didn’t have to? That had been her plan from the start, so what did her feelings matter, as long as Harry was happy? 

She nodded, convinced. This was right. This was the way forward. Her pride was nothing, so long as he did not suffer. She had to hold on to that and hold on to the words that had steeled her resolve. 

She sighed. Amazing. He had said it felt amazing. 

At last she reached the common room, still marshaling herself to her cause in her head. It wasn’t until she was standing in front of the Fat Lady that she realized what it would mean to go inside. Pictures flashed into her mind, violent snapshots of the night before. Ron, touching her, freezing her, kissing her. She reeled backward, head spinning. 

“Are you alright, my dear?” 

She nearly jumped, but remembered in time where she was standing. She nodded, polite but unsmiling, and inhaled deeply to calm her frantic heart. By the time she took her third breath, she had mostly brought herself back under control, though she felt her grip on composure waver threateningly. She looked up at the Fat Lady, willing her face into what she hoped was a reassuring expression. 

“I’m fine, thank you. Just a little bit dizzy.” 

“Maybe you should go in and sit down. What’s the password?” 

The words shuddered on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them back. As inviting as the warmth of the Gryffindor fire and the comfort of the couches were, she couldn’t enter and risk running into Ron. The idea of seeing him, of being anywhere near him, made her feel physically ill - faint, violent and nauseated all at once. Just the brief, involuntary memory of the night before was enough to make her dizzy. Actually seeing him would be like living it all over again. 

Torn, she stood wordless in front of the entrance, unsure where she could go. She couldn’t talk to a teacher for fear of their finding out about her spell. She couldn’t be outside in the grounds at night for fear of the forbidden forest and the creatures who lurked and lived there. She racked her addled brain, dismissing classrooms, other common rooms, bathrooms and kitchens before she came up with a suitable alternative. 

Where else but the library? It was where she spent all of her time, the place where she felt safest. She knew every nook and cranny and could easily evade the watchful eye of Madam Pince. 

She looked up when she heard a small cough. The Fat Lady was looking at her expectantly. “I’m afraid I can’t let you in without the password.” 

In that moment, she decided what to do. “Oh, actually, I left a book in one of my classrooms. I need to go and find it.” The Fat Lady frowned, unconvinced by her deadpan tone, but she was powerless to stop her as she walked away. 

As she left, she felt the twisting in her gut subside slightly with relief. Her mind began to spin, turning over possibilities and logistics. Maybe if she worked in the library all evening, nobody would notice if she stayed the night. She could hide behind the stacks and find a place where nobody would disturb her. It wouldn’t be comfortable, of course, and she doubted that she would get much sleep, but it would certainly be safe, which was really all that mattered. In the library she would be safe, protected from the stares of the other students, the oppression of the sounds of their peaceful, enviable sleep and the constant risk of running into Ron. She would sacrifice weeks of sleep to be free of that. 

Besides, sleeping quickly became expendable when it brought with it sickening nightmares and searing forehead pain. It was better to stay in the library, where she could hide away and fade away amongst her beloved books. 

Knowing that her reasoning wasn’t entirely sound, she paused, waiting for her rational voice to chime in and object to the plan. Nothing happened.   
With sudden comprehension, she realised what it was that had been troubling her for the past few weeks. The voice was gone. Her irrepressible, rational voice of reason had disappeared. 

She supposed it had vanished early on, worn away by thousands of silent screams and sleepless nights. It didn’t upset her to realise it was gone. She was far beyond that. Still, she felt a strange emptiness in the recognition that pain had triumphed over conscience. In the end, she had learned, pain endured hard enough for long enough erased everything else. Conscience, empathy, hope – all faded in the face of suffering. Every tortured man broke eventually, so overcome by pain that everything else ceased to matter. Every tortured man broke, unless, of course, they died before they could. 

She stopped again, captivated by the stray thought. Was it possible? Would it work? It was so simple. Surely… 

She had to find out. Abruptly, she changed directions, pushing past the unrelenting crowds and making a beeline for the library. She knew exactly where to look – the spell had been her constant study in the days after its casting. Brushing swiftly past a bewildered Madam Pince, she reached the right row and pulled down a thick volume stored at shoulder height. She didn’t need to check the contents, flipping straight to the section she needed. 

Section 7: To Call Happiness To The Caster 

Skimming quickly over the scrawling calligraphy, she stopped short at a single sentence crammed into the margin at the bottom of the page. She had read it before, of course, but now she needed to be sure. 

'Feelings of happiness may be drawn from muggles, but cannot be taken from ghosts, hybrid species or the dead.'

She shut the book with a satisfied slam. This was it – the solution she had been searching for. A plan of action came together in her mind – simple steps, easily executed. First, a visit to Slughorn’s store cupboard. The man was so lax with his keys, she knew it would be easy to find what she needed. Then she would take a brief trip to the owlery and a final return to her dormitory. 

Once her plans were fully formed, she didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her wand, quill and a spare sheet of parchment from her bag, then set about her preparations. 

Within an hour she was ready, sitting cross-legged on the crimson cover of her bed with the thick curtains drawn around her. She took a deep breath, assessing her options one last time. No matter how she played out the various scenarios in her head, it always came back to this. It always came back to here. She didn’t know why she hadn’t seen it before. 

A small part of her protested that this was all happening too quickly. It urged her to wait, to see her friends in person and reflect, but she silenced it quickly. With her voice of reason long gone, there was nothing within her with the power to stop her or to change her mind and delay the deed. There could be no long goodbyes or second-guessing. She would do it now, and do it right. 

On the long walk through the castle, she had told herself again and again that it was best this way and she knew deep down that she was right. After all, if she stayed, she would only suffer more. She would suffer the pain she had taken from her friends as well as the pain she felt in her own heart: the pain of unrequited love and the knowledge of how she had destroyed her chance of happiness. Perhaps one day that pain would be enough to erase her very last vestige of self – the will to continue to bear the suffering of others. If that happened, then her sacrifice, her suffering, would all have been for nothing. No, she knew she had to go before she lost the will to take the pain with her. 

She realised that before she left, she could do one final favour for her friends. One final act of love; one last sacrifice. 

Vial in hand, she lay down on her bed and raised her wand to her temple. Picturing in her mind the people she loved – her parents, Neville, Luna, Ginny, Fred, George, Hagrid, Molly, Arthur, McGonagall… even Dobby and Winky, she whispered fiercely, “Effusio venite!”. 

The storm of emotions descended upon her immediately, burning like Fiendfyre. She felt as if she were being consumed from the inside out - her heart torn apart, her lungs shrinking away until all she could manage were short, rough, gasping breaths. She had never felt so much pain. 

With a hand that shook, she raised the vial of Dreamless Sleep potion to her lips and, in one quick move, drained it. She had been sure to take one brewed at triple strength. She did not plan to wake from this sleep. 

As her arm fell to her side, she felt the potion working, deadening the tidal wave of emotions. Closing her eyes, her final thought was of the man she loved, looking up at her in the common room and smiling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. As the memory filled her mind, she smiled too, then slowly slipped away.


	15. Obliviate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The final chapter. 
> 
> I've left you a hug in the notes at the end. I suspect you'll need it. 
> 
> Even if you don't, I'm sure I will, so please pause and return it. 
> 
>  
> 
> This story was and will always be dedicated to Alx, who was the first and the most patient of its readers.

“Mr Potter, where is Miss Granger?” 

The sharp voice rang through the crowded common room, momentarily dampening the din. The boy in question looked up from his books, unfazed by the interruption. 

“Hermione? She’s not here. Is everything ok, Professor?” 

McGonagall glared down at the boy who had once been one of her favourite students and he felt, as he sometimes did with Dumbledore, that she was trying to read his mind. 

“I cannot answer that question until I find Miss Granger. Would you be so good as to tell me where she went?” The way she said it made it clear that this was not a request. Harry sighed slightly, then bowed to her authority. 

“I haven’t seen her since this afternoon, Professor. She could be anywhere.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ron enter the room from the boys’ dormitory, catch sight of McGonagall and immediately turn around and leave again. Whether or not he could feel the consequences of his late night encounter with Hermione, he was clearly unwilling to face them. 

“She hasn’t come into the common room while you’ve been here?” 

“No, Professor.” 

“Are you aware of anything that might cause concern for her welfare?” 

He had no trouble keeping his face impassive. “No, Professor.” 

“How about Mr Weasley? Have you seen him? Could he be with her?” 

“Ron? I think he’s in the bathroom. I seriously doubt you’ll find Hermione in there with him.” He smirked, inviting her to share in his mirth, but she just frowned more deeply. 

“This is no time for jokes, Mr Potter. I need to find Miss Granger. Tell me, where does she usually go, when she’s not here in the common room?” 

He adopted a more sober expression by way of an apology, which she ignored, intent upon his answer. “She’s been spending a lot of time in the library. Sometimes she doesn’t get back here until late.” 

Her piercing eyes bored into his, trying to sort fact from fiction. “And what has she been doing there?” 

“Homework, I guess. Professor, can I ask what’s wrong? Why are you looking for Hermione?” 

“As I said, I can give you no answers until I find Miss Granger. In the meantime, I suggest you visit the headmaster’s office. Professor Dumbledore would like a word with you.” As it was clearly not a suggestion, Harry closed his book and got to his feet with a sigh. Before he left the room, he reached into his bag and pulled out a worn, folded square of parchment. 

In response to McGonagall’s raised eyebrows, he explained, “In case Dumbledore wants me to take notes.” As this elicited another disapproving frown, he made a hasty exit through the portrait hole. 

He ducked into an empty classroom and waited until the Professor’s precise footsteps had passed before he pulled out his wand and tapped the map. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” 

He scanned the spindly lines and moving dots until he found what he was looking for. ‘Granger, Hermione’ was in the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory, as he had known she would be. 

He didn’t know why he had lied to McGonagall, but something told him that he had to be the one to find Hermione - not a teacher, and certainly not Ron. He had to talk to her, to make her understand that he couldn’t allow her to betray his trust. 

Now that Harry knew the truth of what she had done, now that her secret had been shared, he suspected that Hermione might try to confide in McGonagall or Dumbledore. If that happened, they would try to find a way to reverse the spell, and that was the last thing he wanted. He couldn’t lose this gift – not now, after so brief an fling with freedom. He couldn’t go back to sleepless nights and unbearable burdens. 

He set his face into a hard mask of determination. No, he would just have to find a way to convince Hermione to stay silent. It shouldn’t be hard – after all, she had set herself up as the perfect pawn. If she didn’t agree of her own accord, there were other ways to sway her. No matter what she did or where she hid, she couldn’t escape his pain. A small, humourless smile meandered across his face as he mused over the possibilities. With his particular flair for self-harm, he knew persuading her would be easy. 

Set on his course, he swiftly folded the map and deposited it in the deep side pocket of his robes. For once, focused on the task at hand, he didn’t hesitate or pause to check that the corridor was clear before leaving the classroom – a fatal error. The moment he stepped across the threshold into the hall, he saw the unmistakeable figure of his headmaster. Clothed as usual in decadent draped robes, he had his back to Harry as he stared out into the darkness beyond a paneless carved stone window. 

Hoping to avoid a confrontation, Harry took a step back into the shadow of the doorway, but he wasn’t quick enough. Before he could return to the classroom, Dumbledore was facing him, a gentle smile warming the pensive eyes that had surveyed the castle grounds. 

“Ahh, Harry. I believe you were about to visit me in my office. How fortuitous that we should meet here instead. May I speak with you for a moment?” 

No hint of frustration showed on his face. 

“Actually, sir, I was just coming to tell you that I can’t meet you right now. I have a lot of homework due tomorrow and Snape –” 

“Professor Snape will not penalise you if your essay on nonverbal spells is a few lines shorter than required. I shall speak to him myself about the matter at breakfast. It is imperative that we talk, and essential that we talk tonight.” 

For a moment Harry thought about arguing. He really did have homework to do and, of course, he had to deal with Hermione. Besides, after their last discussion, he couldn’t imagine a conversation with Dumbledore would be anything other than awkward. He had a half-formed protest on the tip of his tongue when he looked up into his headmaster’s eyes and suddenly remembered who it was he was dealing with. Dumbledore wasn’t McGonagall, wasn’t Snape, wasn’t any other teacher. He wasn’t any other adult, for that matter. Harry sighed, relenting. Dumbledore wouldn’t be taking no for an answer, so he might as well get the conversation over with as quickly as possible. 

“What did you want to talk about, sir?” 

Dumbledore frowned, obviously unprepared for so easy a victory. “I would like to talk about Hermione Granger.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows, surprised at Dumbledore’s lack of originality. After the last time, he had been expecting some sort of showdown. “I already told Professor McGonagall – I don’t know where she is.” 

“I am not interested in where she is. There are ways and means of finding out that particular piece of information. I am much more interested in how she is. Until we know that, there is no particular advantage in knowing her whereabouts.” 

Breathe. Straight face. Even tone. “You want to know how she is? I don’t know, sir. She’s fine, I guess. I haven’t really seen her much lately.” 

“And why is that?” 

“She’s been working a lot. She spends a lot of time in the library. Look, I already told Professor McGonagall all of this. If you go and find her, I’m sure she can fill you in. In fact, she’s probably found Hermione already and all of this, whatever it is, has been cleared up.” He crossed his fingers behind his back, silently hoping that this wasn’t true. 

“Has Miss Granger confided in you recently?” 

“Confided? No, not really. I mean, she talks about homework, but I’m guessing that’s not what you’re getting at.” 

There was a long silence as Dumbledore stared calmly at his student, who gazed placidly back. 

“Again, sir, I told Professor McGonagall everything I know about Hermione. I think she was headed for the library to look for her. If you leave now, you might –”

His words were interrupted by a sudden high-pitched screech and a warning wind, as an owl swept down from the rafters to land on Harry’s outstretched hand. He recognised the bedraggled bird as one of the old school owls. When he had removed the small square of parchment from its leg, the bird launched itself into clumsy flight and disappeared into the heights of the castle. 

Hesitant to share the contents with his professor, Harry began to pocket the letter, but Dumbledore interrupted with a wave of the hand. “Please, don’t let me keep you from your mail. I have learned through long experience that it does not do to ignore owls.” 

Harry unfolded the page reluctantly, shielding the words as best he could. He read the letter through twice, then folded the parchment and put it back into his pocket without comment. 

As he read, Dumbledore scrutinised Harry carefully, watchful for signs of news, good or bad, but from the moment he opened the parchment to the time he replaced it in his pocket, not a single muscle moved in the boy’s impassive face. 

“Anything interesting?” The question was mild in contrast with the burning curiosity which lay beneath it, but once again Harry remained unperturbed. 

“Just a note from Hagrid, asking me to tea.” 

“I see.” 

“Professor, if that’s all you have to ask me, I really have to get back to the common room. I do have an essay to finish.” 

“I have just one more question, Harry, and I want you to think very carefully before you answer it.” 

“I always think before I answer your questions, sir.” It was a cryptic comment, pointedly non-committal. 

Dumbledore gazed meaningfully at the boy he loved, wondering how so short a time could have changed so much in him. His pale blue eyes were magnified powerfully behind the half-moon spectacles, lending command to request as he spoke the now familiar words. 

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Harry? Anything at all?” 

There was a beat, a pause so small that most people would have missed it, then he carefully and deliberately arranged his face into its most sincere expression, looked deep into Dumbledore’s eyes and spoke. 

“No, Professor.” 

For a long moment, they held one another’s gazes, Dumbledore’s probing, Harry’s immutable. Finally, Dumbledore looked away, sighing in resignation. 

“Very well, Harry. Remember, I am here to help if you should need me. If you do happen to find Ms Granger, please inform me or another member of staff immediately. Her welfare is our priority, as I am sure it is yours.” With a final meaningful stare, he let his student go. 

Not for the first time, Harry wondered whether Dumbledore was trying to use legilimency against him, but he didn’t say anything. Unwilling to reveal what he was hiding and eager to get back to the contents of the letter, he simply nodded, picked up his bag and made his way down the hall. He didn’t have to turn around to know that Dumbledore was watching him all the way to the end of the corridor. 

Once he had made it around the corner and out of sight, Harry ducked into the nearest empty classroom to reread the letter, silently blessing the curse that had made it possible for him to read it before Dumbledore without reacting. The message was short and the writing haphazard, but its meaning was inescapable. 

I tried, but it was too much for me. I’m so sorry.   
At least I can take it with me when I go.   
You’ll never have to suffer again.   
Hermione 

He stared down at the piece of parchment in his hands, disbelieving. His mind quietly calculated the emotions that should be coursing through him. 

Panic. That one was key. He knew that would have been the first to arrive. 

Guilt wouldn’t have been far behind. He should have been asking himself how he could have missed this. He should be telling himself that he should have seen it coming. 

Distress would follow, along with the frantic, burning desire to find her, save her. 

His legs moved forward, propelling him through the corridors, but it was only his conscious mind telling him that he ought to find her. Nothing in his heart made him move. 

His legs took him to the girls’ dormitory as his mind raced, conjuring up images of what he might find there. Bracing himself for the emotions he still subconsciously expected, he entered. 

It was a room he’d never visited. To his surprise, it looked exactly the same as the boys’ counterpart. He’d expected it to be different somehow, but it was an exact mirror image. Ruby red four poster beds lined the walls. Each was carefully made, the curtains flung wide open and scarlet sheets revealed, with one exception. The bed in the centre of the room was isolated, it’s plush velvet curtains closed, concealing what lay within. 

Dread, his mind told him. That’s what you should be feeling now. You shouldn’t want to open those curtains. 

But he felt no qualms about pulling back the soft fabric. For though his heart told him with calm certainty what he would find inside, he was not disturbed at the prospect. He was long past being disturbed. 

The curtains concealed a small, pale figure, lying flat on the crimson quilt, her face framed by hair in disarray. If it hadn’t been for the deathly pallor of her cheeks and the utter stillness of her frame, she could simply have been asleep. 

She still clutched a small green vial in her thin hand. Harry stared at it, reminded of a night, years before, when he had pried a piece of parchment from that hand. It had been equally pale, equally cold and still then. 

This was different, though. This time she could not wake. 

Forgetting for a moment the past few weeks, he stopped, waiting for the floodgate of emotion to open. He waited for the grief and the sorrow that he knew should overwhelm him, but it never came. Long experience with loss told him that this was wrong. He knew what he should be feeling. When he had lost Cedric, he had spent months wallowing in guilt. When he had lost Sirius, he had been devastated, swamped not only with guilt, but with pain, regret, sorrow and loneliness. 

How could he feel nothing for Hermione? 

After all, she had been his best friend, his rock, his yardstick. For six years they had lived, laughed and fought side by side. They had shared meals, classes and homework. They had shared secrets and adventures. He had loved her. He couldn’t imagine life without her. How could he possibly go on? 

Still, the pain refused to come. There was no sorrow, no guilt, no regret. He could not grieve for the loss of his best friend. 

He was empty inside. 

For a moment he closed his eyes, remembering her face as it had been before: radiant, beautiful, full of life. He smiled slightly at the image, love filling his heart. 

Opening his eyes once more, he saw the silent corpse before him, starkly pale and lifeless. It was a bleak contrast to the vibrant girl of his memory. The smile faded away, but the grief did not come. He felt cold. He felt hollow. 

He felt nothing. 

Sighing softly to himself, Harry turned and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *HUGGGGGGGGG*


End file.
